


Hobbit's Vigil

by Gloomier



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Alternate Universe - Bilbo Remains In Erebor, Angst, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Bilbo Baggins Dies, Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, I mean it there will be a happy ending, I'm Screwing With Lore, M/M, Mentions of attempted suicide, Multi-POV, Not Canon Compliant, Sassy Bilbo Baggins, Slow Burn, Sort of fix-it, not sorry for all the feels, sort of remains in Erebor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-05-25 16:20:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6202387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gloomier/pseuds/Gloomier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Though it wasn't a widely known fact, there was a reason why hobbits were laid to rest in the bountiful lands of the Shire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - Gandalf

**Author's Note:**

> As the tags say, this is a Bilbo Dies AU. Please don't let that tag deter you, if you take a look at the other tag 'eventual happy ending', I mean it. Tags will be updated accordingly.
> 
> This fic has been born from [this prompt idea](http://gardenoffish.tumblr.com/post/140178746586/how-about-an-au-where-hobbits-have-to-be-buried-in). 
> 
> Many many thanks to [Airebellah](http://airebellah.tumblr.com/) for her beta work and allowing me to convert her to this idea. 
> 
> [My tumblr](http://tea-blitz.tumblr.com/)

He had seen neither hide nor hair of Bilbo Baggins since the hobbit had ran off to Ravenhill against his wishes.

As much as he had wanted to chase after him, Gandalf could not abandon the battle well under way. Chaos spilled from the valley and into the ruins of Dale, a gaping hole all that was left of the eastern wall. Loathe as he was to admit, the Maiar had responsibilities beyond his own interests. _Afterall, what was the life of a hobbit compared to several hundred others?_ he thought bitterly.

With a great deal of reluctance he returned his focus to the battle, silently praying to all above for Bilbo's safety.

*

With no small amount of luck, and a great price paid with blood, those who would see the line of Durin truly broken and Erebor a garrison for a more nefarious purpose lay dead, their bodies piled high for burning. A great sea of tents filled the valley now, all brimming with refugees, the sick and the injured. All able-bodied dwarves and men were set to work disposing of the refuse left in the wake of the battle or clearing out livable spaces within Erebor. The ruins of Dale were obliterated, unfit for living through the winter. While the dwarves and men took care of the cleaning, elves skilled enough with healing – which happened to be a very large number of Thranduil's forces – were set to look after those who could not care for themselves, and the rest were set to hunt and gather to strengthen the temporary food store.

From what the Wizard could gather conversing with Balin, the old dwarf was infinitely glad that Bilbo, despite going behind their backs, had secured some semblance of an alliance for Erebor. Dwarves and elves had always been at odds; whether because dwarves were second-born, or elves thought themselves simply above the problems of mortals, Gandalf did not know. But he, too, was glad the age-old feud had been pushed aside - at least temporarily

All their problems seemed well on their way to resolving themselves, except for one outstanding issue.

Bilbo Baggins was still missing.

Bolg's forces had come down from the north, flooding Ravenhill in a surprise ambush. Dwalin was one among very few who had been up there as the second force of orcs, compounded with large groups of goblins and bats, bore down on the unguarded flank. As misfortune would have it, the warrior dwarf hadn't seen the slippery hobbit either, which by now had the Wizard really worried. Thorin and his nephews had also been up on Ravenhill, but their health still remained in a precarious state; all three of them had received grievous, life-threatening wounds which left them unfit for any sort of discussion.

He had questioned all those still cleaning up the field, and probed them again later as they ate their supper. Gandalf had also ordered those standing guard throughout the tent village to keep a keen eye out for a hobbit, but none of the hourly reports turned up anything.

His mind always seemed to return back to the odd little gold ring. He had caught Bilbo pocketing it back on the cliff side of the Misty Mountains after the hobbit had materialized – quite literally. The dwarves had not paid a mind to the miracle, but Gandalf knew it for what it was. Magic rings were not to be meddled with! And if Bilbo had used it to get to Ravenhill undetected there was no telling where the hobbit could be now. But the fact remained, if Bilbo used the ring and managed to survive the battle he would be here.

“Bilbo Baggins, where did you go?” Gandalf muttered to himself.

*

Three days later Bilbo was found.

Gandalf managed to convince the elf Tauriel to do one final sweep of Ravenhill and all pathways leading up to it.

The elf finished her fruitless search only to nearly trip over the foot of a dead orc as she made to leave. A small hand with a glimmering golden circle around a little index finger caught her attention. Rolling away the stinking corpse revealed the fate of the lost hobbit.

After three long days of searching a knot had tangled itself within the pit of the Wizard's stomach. As the knot tightened painfully within him, his face crumpled and his eyes turned glassy, watching as the former guard captain brought back a bundle covered with a cloak.

It had been a very long time since he shed a single tear.

*

Gandalf was known to give answers that said both yes and no, contribute advice that seemed meaningless until the last minute, and offer compliments that also paid insult – but for once in his very long life, he was at a loss for words. He had once told Bilbo that he couldn't promise that the hobbit would return, and agreed with Thorin Oakenshield that he too could not be responsible for his safety nor his fate.

It was never his intention to let Bilbo die, and yet here he laid, covered with a dirty white sheet.

Upon Óin's examination of Bilbo's body it was discovered that the hobbit had taken a lethal blow to the back of the head. The force of the blow had been enough to kill him instantly.

The shirt of silver steel was made useless against such a devastating attack.

Hobbits were not made for war, and no one had thought to put a helmet upon Bilbo's curly head.

*

None aside from him, the elf Tauriel, and Óin knew about Bilbo's death.

The members of Thorin's company, especially Thorin himself, were still recuperating and healing a week after the battle had come to a close. Gandalf knew that he had to tell them; putting it off day after day would only make the wound that much deeper. For all they knew Bilbo was too busy with his own healing or helping out in other parts of the camp.

Part of him felt that it was better this way, that they didn't know; he silently cursed every one of them, cursed himself especially, night after night.

He had quite forgotten why it was that he thought Bilbo would be fit as the fourteenth member for Thorin's company in the first place. If it were not for him thrusting this adventure upon Bilbo... If he hadn't introduced the hobbit to these dwarves then Bilbo wouldn't have felt the need to run off to help Thorin.

Hobbits were such compassionate creatures, Bilbo especially so, and the pride he felt when Bilbo killed Thorin's apprehension with kindness after the goblin tunnels was barely a memory now.

And that was how Radagast found him, wallowing in the depths of his own bereavement.

The beast tender was silent, merely a solid presence as his side, grounding him to some semblance of sanity – not that Saruman would ever believe it. The both of them remained that way for several hours before Gandalf felt he had strength enough to inform Thorin and company of the death of their Burglar, their hobbit.

Gandalf heaved himself up off the slab of masonry, walking the short distance to hesitantly part the tent flaps to his figurative doom.

The tent itself was occupied by the company; Thorin sat up in his bed, his torso heavily bandaged and parchment scattered upon his lap while the rest sat on make-shift furniture in varying degrees of rehabilitation.

Whatever they had been doing before his entrance ceased, every one of them staring up at him expectantly. Thorin gave him a look – a horrifyingly soft look he'd taken to using since recovering from his gold sickness – which spurred Gandalf into his announcement.“I am afraid I have some bad news...”

The atmosphere instantly soured, and if he were to reach out, Gandalf would surely be able to touch the dread that now blanketed their little area. Not one dwarf dared to ask the question that lodged itself in their throats.

“I am sad to say that our dear Burglar did not survive the battle.”

The silence was as deafening as the calm before the tempest, and suddenly the storm was upon them, the floodgates unable to keep back the raging waters of despair that now threatened to drown everything. As the old Wizard gazed down at the face of the King Under the Mountain, heartbreak was so very evident upon his kingly features.

No amount of preparation could have braced him for the reactions he received from the company. The only one not surprised among them was Óin; the old medical dwarf let himself sink into his own little stool.

Over the growling, yelling and sobbing Gandalf almost missed Thorin's question of “ _How_?” The King's voice was incredibly cold and quiet, not unlike a biting winter breeze.

The Wizard swallowed thickly, clinging desperately to his threadbare composure. “A blow to the head; Bilbo didn't suffer.”

Gandalf had lived for a very long time on Arda, he had been a witness to some of the worst atrocities this world has ever seen, beheld the most stalwart of kings being brought to their knees. Thorin was no different as he watched the dwarf king crumble into himself and cover his face with his hands. His shoulders shook as he was overcome with heart-wrenching sobs.

“I'll be leaving within the week to return Bilbo to the Shire, so that he may be properly buried and returned to the earth,” Gandalf murmured. His words had Thorin sobering enough to glare at him, as though he were offended by the idea.

“No,” Thorin growled. “He signed the contract, and so we shall see to his funeral arrangements. The matter will not be negotiated further.”

Gandalf _wanted_ to argue the matter further; hobbits were meant to be buried in the lands of the Shire, not on the side of a mountain! But not for the reasons outsiders would care to mind. Hobbits did not have an afterlife like elves or dwarves; Gandalf was still not quite sure where men go after their passing, but he knew hobbits were simply returned to the earth.

“We will dedicate a monument to his invaluable assistance in reclaiming our home – he deserves nothing less.”

Once upon a time Gandalf would have never been cowed by a mortal, but it was easier to let the issue go than press a stubborn dwarf to change his mind. He simply nodded and turned to exit the tent. 

What he saw not too far away had him going pale.

Bilbo Baggins was supposed to be laid out on a table, covered by a white sheet in a tent set aside just for him, yet there he was walking around aimlessly, passing through solid bodies. Gandalf knew that hobbits needed to be buried in the Shire, and now he knew exactly why that was.


	2. Denial & Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo joins the battle, a funeral happens, and Ori doesn't know what the hell is going on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reception for the first chapter of this fic was a lot more than I expected, given the sort of AU this is, so big thank you's to everyone!
> 
> In this chapter I've made some noticeable changes that do not follow canon, the biggest of them all is in regards to the one ring. 
> 
> I'll be updating once a week, likely on Wednesdays or Thursdays.
> 
> Many thanks (as always) to [Airebellah](http://airebellah.tumblr.com/) for all her hard work, I'd probably implode otherwise.
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://tea-blitz.tumblr.com/)

There were many things Bilbo Baggins was afraid of: the spider infestation in his cellar, the nasty dandelions that threatened the livelihood his garden, and Lobelia Sackville-Baggins raiding Bag End while he was off saving a kingdom from both a dragon and orcs.

Least of all his worries was his regard for self-preservation.

He didn't travel across the girth of Arda just to see the lives of his dwarves, the same dwarves he had risked his neck for many times throughout this mad venture, ruined at the hands of some hulking orc out for their blood.

So when Gandalf the Bloody Grey decided that it was not safe for Bilbo to go running up to Ravenhill to ensure that the dwarf king and his nephews didn't meet an early end, well, if there was anything the hobbit had learned from that batty old Wizard, it was to do as he pleased. It had become an easy thing to slide on his useful little trinket and slip away before anyone had the mind to stop him, armed with his hobbit-sized Sting and his vest made of Mithril.

Hobbits couldn't claim many talents; they weren't long-distance runners or great swimmers, nor were they skilled warriors; they were simple folk who enjoyed homely comforts, food and family. There were now a plethora of other things that Bilbo could safely say hobbits _weren't_ made for, chief among them scaling treacherous ice paths up an unforgiving incline. His legs were going to ache for days despite all the running, ducking and dodging he'd been doing almost since day one of the journey.

Thankfully a path had already been carved for him; motionless orc bodies lay strewn all over the incline, and he could focus his effort in reaching the summit of the ice cliff. Time wasn't exactly on his side; Azog's appearance in the valley escalated aggression and stoked the deep hatred within Thorin that had been festering for decades. The King wasn't known for his common sense nor his patience.

Naturally, nothing good could come from Thorin, Fíli, Kíli, and Dwalin rushing up to Ravenhill, and he very much doubted that they had any sort of plan beyond “kill the orc filth.”

Bilbo would always be proud that he was a hobbit, but he cursed his short legs and those armored rams that his dwarves had ridden upon to make their ascent. It felt like an age before he finally managed to reach the top. Even more corpses littered the ground here, and it was eerily silent save for the distant ringing of weapons clashing from below.

“Thorin! Fíli, Kíli!” Bilbo yelled, not yet removing his ring. “Dwalin!”

The absence of dwarves was maddening; he knew they were still up here, _somewhere_. He was more tempted now to remove his ring; it was difficult to differentiate objects when everything was painted in black, white and gray – he may miss something that color might divulge.

“Hello – is anyone here?!”

Unbeknownst to Bilbo, the noise he had been making earned him unwanted attention of a lone orc who crept out from behind a crumbling wall.

Though Bilbo had given himself the title Luck-wearer, Smaug would be the only being to have ever heard it.

There was a peculiarity about the ring, a quirk that Bilbo never noticed about his little trinket. Invisible though he was, whenever he donned the ring, his shadow remained. Even now as the sun sat low in the sky, shining through the overcast, it projected the dark shape of Bilbo's invisible form. Orcs were not bright beings in the slightest, but Bilbo's cries and the odd, lonely shadow drew the orc’s nefarious attention.

Orcs were not known for their stalking abilities; in fact these were practically non-existent within the race. Yet this orc remained unnoticed, creeping closer to a very distraught Bilbo, who even still shuffled along. Using what little smarts it had, the orc aimed using the shadow as a poor estimation, and threw an armored fist out to hit whatever it was that stood before it, landing a frighteningly successful blow.

Bilbo went down face first, out cold before he'd ever hit the ground.

With its host dead, the ring’s illusion faded.

*

Bilbo could remember several times throughout his life when he had unwillingly fallen unconscious.

When he was just a faunt nearing his tweens, Bilbo had many adventures within the forests that spread across large portions of the Shire. On several of these adventures he dragged his favorite cousin Falco around; they'd wield small wooden swords as the both of them fought off evil orc bushes or saved the occasional elf – taking turns being the elf – from the clutches of towering pretend huorns. One day in particular found Bilbo and Falco climbing a massive oak, goading each other into climbing to the highest branches of the tree.

Bilbo had not made it very far before losing his footing; unable to find his grip, the faunt ended up falling quite a ways to the hard ground. Falco was beside himself with worry, as Bilbo was out like a light. It was a miracle that no permanent damage was done; _he was certainly lucky to be alive_ , Bilbo's mother had told his father after she gave Bilbo a good dressing down. His headache lasted for hours right along with the good twisting his ears received.

He had learned to be more cautious from that day going forward. That is, until thirteen dwarves and a wizard invaded his home. In Bilbo’s defence, any other hobbit would have fainted at the thought of dragonfire incineration as well.

It all went downhill from there. His tumble from the bridge in Goblin Town down into the lower reaches of the cavernous deep was much _much_ higher and far more frightening than his fall out of the oak tree. And that time he didn't have anyone to run off for help.

The one thing he remembered from all of those incidents was the dull throb left behind after he'd come to. 

Waking up this time was different; Bilbo expected to have a headache, any sort of pain. He should have been shivering, as the temperatures had dropped quite a bit since exiting the Mirkwood. The nights leading up to the battle were damn near freezing! But instead he felt... good. There were no longer hunger cramps twisting his stomach, no cold, no aches, he wasn't _tired_ – he hadn't felt this good in an age.

Bilbo picked himself up off the ice, startling as his gaze shifted to the ugly visage of a – thankfully dead – orc laying mere inches away from where he had awoken. He rolled his eyes and huffed, quickly rising up from his knees.

The area was littered with more corpses, more than he remembered. It was utterly silent; where once he could hear the tell tale signs of fighting below, muffled by distance, now only the wind blew gently past his ears with a soft woosh.

*

It was all just too real.

There was always the frightening reality that at any point on the journey someone could have died and Ori knew it. Such risks were always present.

Watching Thorin give last rites to Bilbo was a painful reminder that dwarves were not as indomitable as the stone from which they were carved. Balin had explained to Ori as he was given the contract that there would still be great risk trying to reclaim Erebor, even with the force of a dwarven army at their backs. With no army whatsoever, the risk had been that much greater.

At the mere mention of the possibility of a live dragon, Dori quickly offered his strength to the cause, if only to assuage his brotherly instincts. Nori signed on for the gold, or so he claimed – Ori knew it was because of him. They treated him like a dwarfling, but he loved them all the same.

None of that mattered now.

The wooden box where Bilbo's body now laid was newly carved. Bifur, with the help of his cousin Bofur, had worked day and night to do it themselves; the runes and floral patterns made it a masterwork. The cirth spoke of how well loved and important the hobbit was, a gift to the world. Bilbo would have liked the flower designs.

The ceremony was a small gathering, primarily composed of the company, Bard, a small group of Mirkwood elves, Beorn and the two wizards - all those Bilbo had encountered this side of the Misty Mountains. Gandalf looked, in Ori's honest opinion, quite troubled as the small coffin was lowered into the ground. He remembered when Tharkûn had mentioned he wanted to bury Bilbo elsewhere, to follow the traditions of Bilbo's people; he could understand that. Ori did a lot reading, not quite brave enough to question Balin and Dwalin about their experiences during Azanulbizar. When Thrór had failed to retake Khazad-dûm, he remembered reading that the survivors of that battle couldn't return the dead to the stone.

Ori listened blithely to Thorin speak about Bilbo's great deeds: how the hobbit was brave enough to leave his home, had risked his own life to save the company on several occasions, conversed with a dragon and lived, traded his earned reward away for small crumbs of security. While he praised Bilbo's strengths like the mined treasures of a mountain, Thorin also spoke of failures; there were a lot of those, chief among them being Thorin’s pride.

The failures mostly stemmed from deep-seated suspicion and hatred that many in the company showed to other races. It was not unique to them, however; it was a flaw deeply ingrained in their kind, though not without cause. As a young dwarf, such behaviour was not yet so rooted in Ori. Whereas the others had ignored Bilbo, Ori had tried his hardest to make their hobbit companion feel welcomed. Even Dori had tried to stop him.

In the present, Bofur, Bifur and Dwalin picked up shovels and began filling the hole, slowly covering the box with frigid dirt. Ori's eyes swept past them and to the others gathered. Many of his fellow dwarves were in varying states of grief, most weeping loudly, clinging to each other for comfort. Elves were silent and still – impassive like statues, though the red-headed elf moved to comfort Kíli. Bard and the hobbit, they –

Bard and the hobbit.

There was a _hobbit_ standing _next_ to Bard.

All the breath in Ori's lungs escaped all at once. Bilbo was dead, _their hobbit was dead_ , Óin had confirmed it. Yet there he was next to Bard in broad daylight, alive. Ori took a ragged breath, blinking a couple times to make sure that he wasn't seeing things; he was tired, they were all tired. Perhaps the dwarf healer had made a mistake...

Elbowing Nori to his right, Ori leaned over to whisper frantically, “Bilbo's in the box, right? Óin didn't get it wrong?”

“Óin didn't get it wrong,” Nori grunted, his hardened expression softened to that of a concerned brother as he studied Ori. “You're still young; death never gets easier, but you learn to live with it.”

Ori didn't believe it, he _couldn’t_ believe it. Bilbo was still standing there, looking absolutely wretched, watching his own funeral, for Mahal's sake! How could nobody else see him? But before he could get a chance to approach... _Bilbo_ , he was gone. Ori couldn't trust anyone with this, not without them thinking he'd gone insane.

With the last of the shoveling done, the gathering began to disperse. Without a second thought Ori slipped away from Nori's side, having spotted Gandalf and Radagast quietly talking to each other as they walked at their own pace, slowly falling behind everyone else. If he couldn't explain to himself what he saw, then perhaps one of the wizards might have an explanation.

“Mr. Gandalf,” Ori said on his approach as he hurried over, catching the attention of the both of them.

“Oh, hello Ori,” Gandalf smiled, despite the sorrow he must have felt. “Is there something you need?”

Ori frowned, still unsure if he should be telling anyone about what he saw – wizards were meddlers and they were the _definition_ of insane. Gandalf cleared his throat, clearly looking for an explanation for Ori's interruption.

“Yes – umm, well you see... I s-saw something – or rather I saw someone during the funeral, someone that shouldn't have been there,” Ori struggled to explain. He wasn't used to detailing things that were not facts found in books, and he wasn't very good at talking to people in general.

Gandalf narrowed his eyes, searching Ori's expression and body language for something. Ori wasn't sure why, but that piercing gaze was enough to unsettle him even more and he began wringing his hands nervously. “Who wasn't meant to be there, Ori? Tell me.”

“Bilbo,” Ori uttered. “I saw Bilbo standing next to Bard during his funeral.”

Gandalf's lips were pressed into a thin line, and if Ori were to guess, he'd say that the Wizard wasn't surprised with his admission. _Why wasn't he surprised_? he wondered.

Radagast chose that moment to interrupt. “It seems that you aren't the only one, Gandalf. I'll leave you to speak with the lad. Find me later, my friend.”

Ori watched him go while Gandalf remained silent, leaning onto his staff with his expression drawn into deep thought. And so Ori waited and waited until the sun began dipping past noon, when the wizard finally spoke up.

“You are not the only one who saw Bilbo,” he said slowly, as if he were still putting the right words together in his head. “I knew that there was something wrong when he did not reappear after the battle. I was the second to see his body, the first was the elf Tauriel, then Óin after me. He was pronounced dead, but I saw him again, he was alive – walking around as though he hadn’t been in a battle, or run ragged after such a long journey.”

“I-Is... is he alive?” Ori croaked, the heaviness of Gandalf's words wrapped around him like a great snake, threatening to squeeze the life from him.

“No, I am afraid that he is quite dead, yet...” the wizard grimaced. “I have a favor to ask of you, young Ori. This is of the utmost importance, do not speak of this to anyone. I have a theory on why we are able to see Bilbo, but this will require quite a lot of tact – which makes you perfect for this task.”

Ori was confused, but flattered that Gandalf thought so highly of him. He and the rest of the dwarves didn't deserve such high praise after all that had transpired. “Please, tell me, I want to help – that is I want to help i-if I can. It's the least I can do for our Burglar.”

“Good, very good,” Gandalf hummed in approval. “Should you see Bilbo again, approach him, but do not draw attention to yourself. Surely I do not need to explain to you what it would look like if you were to try and speak to Bilbo around others.”

Ori nodded, understanding the gravity of the warning.

“I will be departing early tomorrow; I must travel to Lothlórien, I fear that my own adventures may have worn me out. Should you need anything in regards to our… situation, send a raven.”

*

A funeral.

_His funeral_.

Bilbo wandered aimlessly through the camp, something he had taken to doing since climbing down from Ravenhill.

The first day he had thought it was some big joke: _don't talk to the hobbit who betrayed the King Under the Mountain_. He had panicked after the first ten minutes, shouting at every guard and passerby he could. Bilbo screamed at the top of his lungs near the tents set up for the sick and wounded, and again when the inhabitants of the tent village settled in for the night – not a single person reprimanded him nor spared him a glance.

The second day, after having the night to calm himself down, he made a startling discovery. Bilbo tried to kick Thranduil's shins after narrowly dodging the tall bastard, only his foot went right through the king's leg. The elf hadn’t felt a thing.

Bilbo didn't much care anymore that people were walking through him; it wasn't as if he could scream at them to watch where they were going. He walked and he walked until he stood in the obliterated ruins of Dale, a place where there wasn't a soul aside from himself. Whatever useful things might have been here before were either destroyed or moved to the tent village, leaving no chance of someone breaking his spell of solitude. Bilbo climbed a relatively undamaged set of stone stairs that led up to a crumbling wall. He had a good view from here of the valley spread out before him and the demolished gate of Erebor far in the distance, the jagged ice cliff to his left and the rough hill to his right.

There was a time when he wouldn't have minded a bit of peace and quiet. It may have even been a blessing, if the hobbits in the Shire had ignored Bilbo during his time there. But that time was long since passed; he'd even forgotten to properly see to his affairs before running off to join the company of dwarves. It pained him to think of what was to become of his smial and all of his possessions. _Lobelia will see to the silver_ , Bilbo thought balefully.

Would anyone bother to take care of all of his mother’s things? Would his home simply go to the highest bidder? Would whomever it was that inherited his business do as good a job as he?

Those things no longer mattered; what right did he have to worry about all those troubles when he was stone dead and six feet under?

He still couldn't believe it. _Dead_ , what a novel thought. He had been so worried about someone else's well being that he had forgotten his own, and he couldn’t even remember dying!

Bilbo was so preoccupied with his dilemma he hadn't noticed Ori creep up the stairs to stand next to him –

“Bilbo?” Ori said tentatively, unsure if Bilbo – or whatever they were – had heard him.

Bilbo stilled, thinking back to all those times he had tried to get some sort of attention, even a single word from _anyone_ , hoping for some recognition even if it meant he would be called a traitor, betrayer, anything! If he could cry, Bilbo knew he would be a sobbing wreck right now, but he had apparently lost the ability after dying.

“You can see me?” Bilbo whispered as he angled himself to face to the scribe, praying to any Vala who might listen that it was true – that someone was finally speaking to him.

Ori was silent for a moment, but a moment was all it took for Bilbo to wilt, as though whatever hope he had been harboring left him completely. “I-I, yes – I think. I am speaking to Bilbo, am I not?”

Though he couldn't cry, he could still get choked up it seemed. “Yes, yes, Ori you are speaking to Bilbo.” Oh how he wished to cry! This was one of the happiest moments of his life, even as it was the saddest. “You aren't dead too, are you?” Bilbo was horrified at the thought of Ori being dead. He didn't know if this was a bizarre freak occurrence or if his predicament could happen to other races as well.

“Oh, thank Mahal! I was worried you were a figment of my imagination or perhaps a demon,” Ori sighed, very relieved to be speaking to the real Bilbo. “But, no, I'm not dead.”

Bilbo, too, was relieved that Ori wasn't dead and that the scribe was actually speaking with him. Ori did indeed look whole and hale, and Bilbo couldn't have been happier for it. He watched as Ori opened his mouth to say something, but he shut it again looking quite unsure of himself. Bilbo couldn't blame the lad; this was an unusual circumstance, not even he would know what to do were their roles reversed.

“Say it, please, whatever it is – I will try and answer anything... Please just –” _talk to me, I need to know that I'm not going crazy_ , Bilbo wanted to say. Any noise could be deafening and Bilbo would still hear the silence, and silence was _madness_.

“Why... do you think that this happened to you? You shouldn't be here – I mean, you're dead. Mahal, I'm sorry it's just, strange. I've never talked to a dead person before.” Ori stammered awkwardly, his thoughts in complete disarray. Bilbo didn't look offended by his words though, no matter how awful they sounded when he said them, his line of thought sounded better in his head.

Bilbo smiled. “I promise I'm not offended, this is just as strange for me as it is for you. I know I shouldn't be here, it _feels wrong_.” He really didn't know what this meant, what the purpose of being a ghost was, but he recalled something from his childhood. “There was a story my father once told me, something that no one ever really speaks of these days; not that it's a secret, mind you, but just because it's older – older than all the hobbits living in the Shire currently.”

Ori remained silent, enthralled with the knowledge that he was about to learn something important, perhaps even the key to why Bilbo wasn't really gone.

“Hobbits didn’t originate in the Shire, we wandered there from the Gladden Fields – our wandering days, if you will. The finer details are lost to me, but hobbits were driven from their home, forced to seek a safer place to put down roots, which is why the Shire exists today in Eriador.” Bilbo knew he was missing quite a few other details in his little story, but he continued nevertheless.

“It wasn't precisely written down, but it's also been said that where hobbits take root they must also be buried after death, to return to the earth. We hobbits are often a superstitious folk, though I doubt you'll find a single hobbit other than myself who would admit it to you,” Bilbo chuckled. “No one really questions it; there hasn't been a hobbit death, in my lifetime at least, where the deceased were buried outside the borders of the Shire, nor do any of our current history books explain any further why that is.”

Ori wished he had bothered to ask more about hobbits during the journey to Erebor, as this was all very interesting. He could already make a couple of assumptions based on Bilbo's history lesson and this bizarre happening. “So, you will be the first ghost hobbit to ever exist?”

“It seems that would be the case,” Bilbo laughed, rubbing at his forehead thoughtfully. He never thought of it like that, and if there was a solution to whatever this was, then perhaps Ori wouldn't mind writing it all down one day – for posterity. For now, this was enough.

If Bilbo were to inexplicably disappear in the morning, well then, he would be happy to have had the privilege to speak to someone before it happened.


	3. Safe and Sound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo seems to have a few tricks up his sleeve and Bofur is just trying to keep his miners alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Airebellah](http://airebellah.tumblr.com/) is a gem that is shinier than the Arkenstone.
> 
> [My tumblr](http://tea-blitz.tumblr.com/)

Time was a strange concept.

No one would ever consider what time meant to a dead person, not that there was a reason to do so. Two weeks didn't seem like a huge amount of time to Bilbo – well, it shouldn't have felt like a huge amount of time, but now it seemed to be an eternity. It was strange, bordering on disconcerting; the days just bled together and Bilbo often found himself forgetting the date or the month. Were he alive, his body could easily remind him of the time day: when he required sleep, when it was time for a meal, when he needed a drink. Having a body seemed less troublesome now than it did when he was alive.

He couldn't keep himself properly distracted, putting a sharper point to his blurred concept of time.

Bilbo would have had many hobbies to keep occupy his time if only he had the ability to hold things. He could have spent hours reading, much like Ori did in the library as the dwarf worked to restore it. Or he might have spent his time writing poetry, describing the lands he traveled across, and all of the people he'd met, detailing all the perils he lived through; perhaps he would have written a retelling of the quest for Erebor. And Bilbo would have loved to spend hours in the kitchen, baking with Bombur and trading recipes, learning how to prepare proper dwarvish cuisine.

Knowing that he was incorporeal was far worse a realization than knowing he would never see his home again.

Two weeks ago Ori had found him, to Bilbo's great relief. It was slow going, as he spent much of that time trying to reassure himself that this was merely a dream, that he would wake up from this nightmare alive and in Bag End – or at the very least in Erebor. Bilbo appreciated that Ori did his best to make him feel needed, but despite Ori's good intentions, Bilbo couldn't shake the feelings of worthlessness and loneliness that hung over him like a thick veil. He had learned a long time ago, after the death of his parents, to bury those black emotions – dying brought them all back tenfold.

Bilbo was thankful that Ori could see him, speak to him on occasion even, but the scribe couldn't keep him entertained all hours of the day; he had duties to attend to, and Bilbo couldn't expect the young dwarf to abandon them to entertain a ghost. He felt useless; if he were alive he could be assisting Ori, or he might have other duties had he decided to stay in the mountain. While Ori slept, or on days the scribe couldn't find time to talk to him, Bilbo would be overcome by extreme loneliness; not being able to speak to his friends when he saw them or ask questions when they popped into his head sent him further into despair.

He often found himself wishing that he could help solve his mysterious situation. The topic had him quick to anger, Bilbo had had to apologize to Ori on several occasions while discussing hobbit history; having to rely solely on Ori to search thousands of tomes, even for even the smallest crumb of information, was infuriating.

Sulking was something that came easier to him, especially after a bout of explosive anger. He found it difficult to keep himself together when Ori was shooting him pitying looks; Bilbo hated that he could not keep control over his turbulent emotions.

While the harsher emotions were ever present, heavy and churning in the pit of his soul, the lighter emotions were always there right along with them. Bilbo could feel joy just as keenly as anger, but there were fewer things now that invoked such genuine happiness within him.

Discovering days ago that he could float around or pass through solid objects eased a lot of his tension. The views from far above were wonderful, and he could explore unreachable places within the mountain. Bilbo took great joy in sneaking up on Ori when the scribe wasn't working as well. One evening he managed to pop up through the scribe's bowl during his evening meal – Ori had spilled half of his stew on Kíli, growing red with embarrassment while Bilbo had a good laugh.

His ghostly abilities weren't all used for silliness, however. They offered him a great deal more stealth than his ring ever did; he no longer made any noise – not that anyone could hear him in the first place – he could travel anywhere without a soul noticing, eavesdrop on everyone – though a lot of conversations were held in that blasted dwarvish language.

That was how Bilbo discovered Ori had received a letter from Gandalf.

“What does Gandalf mean, _'I haven't found any pertinent information yet'_?” Bilbo asked leaning over Ori's shoulder, reading the spidery script. There was a wine stain at the bottom of the parchment.

The letter wasn't very long of course, greetings and salutations, asking after Erebor and how Ori was doing. _I hope that our ghost hobbit is doing well_ , stood out to Bilbo the most.

“O-Oh! Oh it's nothing, just some... research!” Ori stammered, crumpling up the letter to hide its contents, nearly tumbling out of the chair as he turned to face Bilbo.

Bilbo felt hurt that Ori couldn't confide in him about the _ghost problem_. His thoughts projected themselves onto his face, easily read like an open book. “You didn't know, did you? I thought that Gandalf must have –” Ori asked, confusion deeply etching itself on his face.

“I haven't spoken to Gandalf since I was banished from Erebor,” Bilbo interrupted. “I saw him in the camp after I woke up, and if he saw me too he didn't make it known, not to me anyway.” He could feel the anger bubbling up again like bile – it thrummed unhappily through his soul. Knowing Gandalf could see him yet had said nothing was sickening.

“Oh Mahal, if I had known I would have said something earlier! I'm so sorry Bilbo, please don't be mad,” Ori pleaded. Bilbo knew it wasn't Ori's fault, he didn't have a reason to go behind the hobbit’s back. As quick as the anger and hatred came it was gone again when the realization dawned on him that Gandalf knew about him.

“Ori, I have a favor to ask,” Bilbo murmured, staring thoughtfully at the balled up parchment still in the scribe's hand.

The dwarf nodded eagerly, “Anything.”

“I'd very much appreciate it if you wrote back to Gandalf, I have a choice few words to say to him – if you please,” Bilbo said menacingly. Ori offered him a cheerful smile, digging out a fresh piece of parchment and wetting his quill in the ink pot.

After an hour of naming off every foul word he knew – which elicited many giggles and compliments from Ori – and a stern _“I don't care if you have to act as my living will, Gandalf, but you will make sure everything of mine is seen to. This is your fault after all,”_ the letter was complete.

*

Erebor was Bofur's dream come true.

He had grown up in the Blue Mountains, just before the fall of Erebor, coming into his beard right around the time the Longbeards wandered across the Misty Mountains following Smaug’s attack. He was old enough to watch his cousin, Bifur, march off to Khazad-dûm but still too young to become a soldier himself. It wasn't likely that Bifur would have allowed it anyways; he could recall the stern talking to Bifur had given him about needing to take care of Bombur and their ma just before his cousin’s departure.

Bombur was only a handful of years younger than him, but as it was, their mother suffered from her time spent in the mines of the Blue Mountains. They weren't as prosperous as other mountains, with precious ore and gem seams fit to burst. No, the Blue Mountains were mostly coal and iron; whatever precious metal and gems that were once present had been gone far longer than an age. The black dust from the tunnels she worked coated her lungs, making her prone to frequent bouts of heavy coughing, expunging black goo for the effort. He grew up watching his mother cough hard enough to break ribs.

There was little work to be found in or around the mountain, and the men in the nearest village purchased dwarvish goods at severely reduced prices. The bit of carving Bifur had taught him before leaving with Thrór's army wasn't worth more than a couple coppers to the men. With very little choice left, Bofur took up mining as his mother had before him. The following year, the remnants of Thrór's defeated army returned. He had heard, in great detail, the horrific story from the drunken, battle-scarred veterans in the tavern. Bifur hadn't been among those healthy enough to walk on their own and the healer, Óin or some such, had been strict regarding the wounded soldiers.

It was by some screwed up fortune that allowed Bofur and Bombur into the healing ward; the black in her lungs was beginning to suffocate their mother – she didn't survive the night.

Whether it was because Mahal took pity on him and Bombur, or by some stroke of good luck – Bofur couldn't tell – Bifur had managed to survive his own battle against death; the axehead buried into his skull was proof of his dwarven tenacity.

For a long time Bofur was content, not that living in Ered Luin was luxurious, but because he had his brother and his cousin. Mining conditions further deteriorated, several more tunnels, the oldest ones to date, were showing signs of extreme instability. A tunnel he had spent two years in collapsed only a handful of hours before the shift change, and none of the miners working it had survived.

Bofur liked to think that his life was full of unexpected coincidences; it was right around the time of the tunnel collapse that he heard whispers that Thorin Oakenshield, prince of the Durin line, was looking for able-bodied dwarves in need of work. It wasn't until he found Balin in the tavern he frequented that he learned the full spectrum of this _quest_. It was a lot to take in; the danger alone should have put Bofur off the idea, but the gain was worth far more than a life spent in a desolate mountain. It was easy to convince Bifur, he still had plenty of fight left in him, and he owed Thorin a life-debt – one he'd gladly repay. Bombur was a bit more tricky; having a wife and many children made leaving them that much more difficult.

The quest had been just as perilous as Balin had said, probably more than he expected with Azog thrown into the mix. For all their troubles, however, Bofur couldn't have ever imagined how truly intrinsic Bilbo would become to the company. He was embarrassed to admit that Bilbo was a far better person than he had originally thought; unlike Ori, they all might have been better off welcoming such a brave creature rather than brushing him off entirely. Bofur envied Ori; he might have had Bilbo's friendship from the beginning too if he hadn't teased the hobbit whenever the chance came along, or treated him with suspicion for that matter.

That guilt left a hole as deep and black as Moria.

Bofur had little time these days to reminisce. Somehow Thorin managed to cajole him into taking up a foreman position for mining operations, as there was always a gratuitous amount of work to be done – maps to check, tunnel inspections to be made, people to yell at. He was an easy dwarf to please, and he didn't want some special title or an important job; loathe to admit it, the job was good at keeping his mind occupied.

With the rebuilding largely underway, Thorin had tasked Bofur with making sure that coal – normally used to fuel the many forges within the mountain – was in good supply. It was still too early yet to establish trade agreements with Mirkwood so soon after the battle and Thranduil's poor attempt at diplomacy – according to Balin. After hearing the stories of Smaug's invasion, and the time spent in the elven King's dungeons, Bofur didn't trust the elf either. Dragonfire had made quick work of all the wooded areas surrounding the mountain, and with Thorin's adamant stance against trading with elves for the time being, the King Under the Mountain turned to coal for keeping the residents warm.

Coal was dirty and dusty, smelled funny when it burned, and made plumes of smoke. But despite its flaws, coal burned a lot longer than wood and Erebor had a very large surplus in the form of two large tunnels. The store used to supplement the great forges was half full already, so only one of the tunnels needed to be worked through the winter; the current population didn't warrant a second tunnel operation.

As a foreman, it was Bofur's job to ensure the stability of the tunnel that was to be worked. Smaug, for the most part, avoided the mines, far more interested in treasures already carved out and not ones yet hidden in the rock. Though the deep tunnels were safe from a dragon rampaging through them, they were not impervious to the vibrations from the tromping around of said dragon. The biggest issue was the general stability of the tunnel. Bofur was unfamiliar with the tunnels of Erebor, and no dwarf currently residing in the mountain had an idea of the stability of the coal tunnels even before Smaug came. There were obvious signs of natural deterioration, and fissures in the wall were as clear as day according to the cursory inspection. However, stone-sense could only reveal so much.

Bofur was going over more tunnel schematics for possible future operations when it happened.

It was too good to be true when the cursory inspection revealed nothing; Bofur found himself regretting not doing a complete inspection of the coal shaft. It was a rushed job, poorly executed in urgency – a job he should have sought to personally. He could hear the chaos long before he saw it, and it was like stepping through to the past – only this time he was supposed to be the one in charge. The crowd wasn't large, a handful of on-duty soldiers and a couple soldiers-turned-miners, all covered in coal dust and yelling at each other. Bofur caught snatches of the conversation.

“We can't just leave them in there!” One of the dwarves protested. His entire face was blackened with soot, his face probably bright red underneath if Bofur were to hazard a guess.

“They're dead already, and we don't have men to spare to be buryin' out that cave-in!” the soldier growled, straightening himself to seem more intimidating.

Though they were normally few and far between in a stable mountain, Bofur knew all too well how fatal cave-ins could be. There wasn't a day that didn't go by when he wasn't thinking about the collapse that could very well have taken his life. To write off a team of miners as dead... such careless outlook on life so soon after a battle was unbelievable!

“An' how do you know they're all dead?” Bofur yelled. “If we lose those miners then we're all as good as dead, unless you and more of yer soldier buddies are chompin' at the bit to mine the coal that'll be keepin' us warm through the winter! Perhaps we'll be burnin' your body for fuel while we're at it.”

The soldier sputtered, face going redder. “We'll never get to them in time, why bother?!”

Bofur's blood boiled. It was disgusting to imagine that these were the sort of dwarves under Dáin's command. Those miners were soldiers, part of Dáin's army, who were all too willing to shed their armor and lay down their weapons to take up mining picks for the winter. “Those are dwarves you know, and yer just willin' ta let them die in there? I'm sure Dáin'll be happy to hear that his own men are more vile than orc filth!”

He expected the blow that followed his accusation, but he was surprised to find that it stung far less than the blow he dealt to the filth's pride. Bofur struggled to keep back the smirk threatening to split his face; he had dwarves to save and igniting another fight was sure to get those trapped miners killed with the dallying.

*

Bilbo knew that everything in Erebor was tight.Gold couldn't be eaten and it wasn't a source of heat. He learned from Ori that Thorin wasn't willing to deal with Thranduil, but thankfully the dwarf king had come up with an ingenious way to keep everyone from turning to ice as winter set in. Bilbo was proud that the dwarf had finally learned _some_ common sense.

He heard a lot of stories about Erebor during the company's respite in Beorn's halls, most of them from Thorin. Bilbo thought it a little morbid to think of all the exploring he could do without having to worry about the dangers. He was curious to actually see the mines, as he had barely gotten a glimpse while he and the dwarves had been evading a fire-breathing dragon.

Bilbo wasn't familiar with Erebor yet, but getting lost didn't exactly have any drawbacks. He took quite a lot longer than he expected, only to end up following an agitated dwarf who had shouted something about the mines.

There was a small crowd scurrying about near a large tunnel, and dwarves were hefting large pieces of dark rock from the entrance. As he watched with astonishment, he could hear raised voices, arguing over worried chatter from dwarves working to clear the mouth of the tunnel.

“I need more men!” Bilbo heard a familiar dwarf shout.

“We don't have anymore men to spare!” another dwarf yelled back.

“Then call in the cleaning crews – Mahal's hairy balls, we don't need soldiers guarding the treasury! Where's it gonna go?!” Bofur shouted. His face was a bright red that Bilbo had never seen the dwarf wear before. “The gates are closed and the snow is right fierce, beating down on the mountain.”

Bilbo smirked victoriously on Bofur's behalf – the soldier dwarf's face screwed up like he'd eaten a lemon before he stomped off. The triumphant feeling was quickly dampened; Bofur didn't quirk a smile at his own victory however. He was anxious, pacing back and forth as dwarves hurried into the collapsed tunnel to cart out more black stone.

“Tell me what I can do to help,” Bilbo found himself saying, more to himself than anyone in particular; not that anyone could hear him anyways. He wanted to help, and it'd been all he'd wanted to do since talking to Ori.

Bofur stopped mid pace – the sudden awareness was like watching the sunset after a summer storm, the vibrant colors perfectly framed like a painting. He could feel his chest tighten and his stomach churn seeing Bilbo in his field of vision. Every part of him wanted Bilbo to be real and not some nightmare he was reliving. Bofur's feet move on their own, the rest of his body already knowing what his mind was scrambling to comprehend. “Bilbo...”

“Don't, Bofur,” Bilbo said, realizing immediately what was transpiring. “We can talk later, but right now you need to save those miners.” Ori had explained to Bilbo that Gandalf had asked him to keep this a secret, and talking to Bilbo around others would only breed suspicion. Still there was a giddy relief bubbling inside him, knowing that one more person could see him.

Bofur wanted to say something – anything, squeeze the life out of the hobbit with a hug, sit down and have a cry – but Bilbo was right. He had miners to save and now was not the time for reunions or crying dwarves. The worry melted from him and his bleakness evaporated.The hobbit's presence was like a steel rod down his spine, strengthening his resolve.

It was strange watching Bilbo walk through a wall of fallen stone, but it made clear that he wouldn't be giving that life-squeezing hug. By the hobbit's reckoning, a small handful of the miners in the tunnel were killed in the collapse, many more were injured in some form, and a few had only suffered scrapes and bruises in their panic. Bofur wondered how Bilbo had been able to ascertain such detailed information when it was likely pitch black down that shaft.

It was hours before the entrance was cleared enough to send in the rescue team. Though they had lost a couple of dwarves, all the rest were saved and that alone was worth the punch he'd taken and all the yelling he had to do to get it done. He'd be having a long talk with Dáin about the rest of those ruddy Iron Hills dwarves. Bofur had never been more happy to take a nice – cold – bath and huddle up next to a fire.

“So, you can still see me?” Bilbo spoke up, settling next to Bofur who was now wrapped up tightly in a pilfered fur, startling the dwarf; Bilbo's presence was unexpected.

“Tha' depends,” Bofur chuckled, poking a hand out from under the fur to rub his tired face. “Are ye real, or did that arse of a soldier rattle my head with his fist?”

It seemed like a running theme, not that Bilbo could blame Ori and Bofur for believing that they were seeing things. “I'm real – or at least, I think I'm real,” Bilbo frowned. “Ori believes I'm real, anyways.”

_Of course the youngest of us would see Bilbo_ , Bofur thought bitterly. “And yer –”

“Dead? I'm afraid so.” Bilbo whispered, bringing his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them tightly.

Bofur frowned, watching as Bilbo curled into himself. If Mahal _had_ shown his family pity all those years ago, he certainly believed it now. He felt he'd been given a second chance to wash away his guilt and atone for his poor behavior.

Bilbo deserved friendship and Bofur would be damned if he made the same mistakes twice.


	4. Sun is Shining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spring brings with it all its own problems and Balin just wants a couple of royals to stop acting like children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got a little impatient so, here's a new chapter a day early! 
> 
> [Airebellah](http://airebellah.tumblr.com/) is worth more than a dragon's hoard.
> 
>  
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://tea-blitz.tumblr.com/)

Bilbo hated winter.

It wasn't only because of the Long Winter, which had been the coldest ever recorded, heralding extreme hardship on the Shire, and consequently taking the life of his Father. Winter meant the green things withered and browned, snow blanketing the lands and the cold sapping the heat from warm bodies and homes. Most hobbits enjoyed winter as it brought with it Yuletide festivities, and Bilbo appreciated it as much as the next hobbit. Yet the food never tasted right, not like it did during any other time of the year – not since he was just a faunt anyway.

This winter had gotten the best of him, and Bilbo was loathe to admit it. His predicament made him feel everything so much more keenly; it was not unlike him to feel the cold season put a damper on his emotions, but being dead – and a ghost – made him far more grim. Having Ori and now Bofur picked up his spirits significantly, and the miner had his mind set on spending as much time with Bilbo as he could. Bilbo couldn't complain, though he and Bofur did not start off on the right foot on their first meeting. In fact, now Bofur desperately wished to make up for lost time. Though it wasn't said outright, the hobbit knew that it was the dwarf's way of apologizing.

Bilbo had gotten a little better at keeping the date, with Ori's help of course. The scribe had spent time creating a calendar for him, and each new day Bilbo would watch him cross another square off. It had been just over two months since Ori sent off their reply to Gandalf. He had grown far too impatient, itching to find out whether or not the Wizard had managed to get his affairs in order; Bilbo hoped that anyone except for Lobelia had inherited his home and all worldly possessions inside. The biggest of his worries was that Gandalf had forgotten about him – which seemed to be a recurring worry for the hobbit. Bilbo no longer wanted to be a ghost; his longing to be alive and breathing again had become incessant, a hunger that refused to be sated. Watching those around him buzz with life made him _ache_.

Now that spring was on Erebor's doorstep Bilbo found himself a little happier, if only because hobbits loved the spring more than any other season. His ache to feel alive again was only rivaled by his want to feel the warmth of a spring sun on his skin once more. Bilbo would have loved to putter around under the sun working in his garden once more.

He found himself happy nonetheless.

The men spent a great deal of their time over the cold months – with the help of dwarves – crafting building tools and materials for the imminent reconstruction. Much of the work force put into mining coal for the cold months was pulled from the coal tunnel and set to mining iron, which was needed for rebuilding both Erebor and Dale. Ori had told him that Bard wished to rebuild as much as possible once the snow melted and the temperatures picked up.

Thoughts of rebuilding Dale had Bilbo's thoughts wandering to Erebor and whether or not Thorin was still willing to help the men. He had been unconsciously avoiding Thorin ever since waking up on Ravenhill and discovering that he was dead. Those first few days walking around in the tent village had put him off of finding anyone he knew; it was just too painful for him. Bilbo never sought out the dwarf King, and when he had somehow stumbled upon his own funeral – which he still found to be quite nightmarish – Bilbo couldn't bring himself to look at Thorin as the dwarf spoke of Bilbo’s great deeds and noble sacrifice. Thinking about the King brought up the hurtful words Thorin had said under the influence of gold-sickness. Of the many perils he'd been put through during the journey, the one catastrophe that stuck out most, the very thing that even now tore at him as though he were stuck in a briar patch, was Thorin nearly throwing him from the top of the battlements after his _assumed betrayal_. Bilbo watched the King's eyes glass over with anguished tears as he banished _the traitor_ from Erebor, not that that mattered now; Bilbo was unable to leave the mountain. He had tried to once – out of curiosity – and only made it to the outskirts of Mirkwood. In the blink of an eye he was returned to where his body was laid to rest.

Bilbo was surprised to finally see Thorin again, showing up in the library, seeking out Ori in regards to the upcoming peace talks with the men and elves. Ori had earned himself the title of royal scribe as he had helped in the reclamation of Erebor. Seeing Thorin after all this time was strange.

It was easy to remember how everything came crashing down around him, but Bilbo found it more difficult these days to recall the good memories. He and Thorin never hit it off, as it took him saving the dwarf from Azog to finally earn anything other than ire from the King. Bilbo wasn't a skilled fighter by any means, but the sentiment alone had melted the ice Thorin used to guard himself and it was just enough for Bilbo to get to know him. Now, Bilbo wasn't sure how he felt about the dwarf; he had been hurt far too much hoping that perhaps they could be friends. Though Thorin didn't kill him, the words he spoke were enough to cut Bilbo so deeply, killing felt as though it might have been a blessing. It was not appropriate to think of such things, and Bilbo tried not to facilitate such dark thoughts; he didn't want to have died in the first place, by Thorin's hand or otherwise.

Even now Bilbo wished Thorin could see him, if only to have a chance to apologize for his betrayal, explain that he had only done what he thought was right after vouching for Thorin in Laketown.

Out of some obscene nosiness, Bilbo couldn't help but follow Ori and the King from the library and to the chambers where the peace talks were to be held.

 

*

 

Balin was very wise for a dwarf. While he did not lack for strong warrior qualities – though Dwalin was a finer warrior then he – Mahal graced him with a sharp mind and a silver tongue, a near identical cut to his father, Fundin.

His father had been royal adviser to Thrór during his reign, one of the King's most trusted dwarves. There was no craft calling for Balin; instead he quickly took to politics, learning all the ins and outs of diplomatic work at a young age. When Balin wasn’t shadowing Fundin – learning courtly duties – he was at Thorin’s side, counseling the Prince and preparing for the time when they would both inherit their duties; for Thorin would one day be King, and Balin a King’s adviser.

As Thrór had fallen deeper and deeper into his love of gold, Balin had watched his father became increasingly distraught, each night returning home more tired than the last. Wrinkles carved themselves deeper into his skin and each morning what remained of his silvery hair had begun to turn white. Many nobles in the court had been foul, whispering into the King's ear, sowing seeds of paranoia and distrust in his withering mind and blackening heart.

Even after Smaug, Balin had never ceased his duties, continuing to counsel Thorin and assisting his own father with delegation. What nobles had survived continued to spew their vitriol, and Thrór's paranoia grew to the point where he was convinced that the other dwarven kingdoms could not be trusted since that he had no longer possessed the King's jewel.

With no small amount of strength of will, and a great deal of patience, Fundin had convinced Thrór to lead the refugees of Erebor west towards Ered Luin. But they had never made it. The foul whisperers had convinced Thrór to attempt to retake Moria and restore Khazad-dûm to its former glory. The mad King's lust for riches had won out and he had rallied the remaining dwarven kingdoms behind his cause, gaining their support despite the recent loss of Erebor.

It hurt Balin to think back to that day, watching as his father was cut down in defense of his King. From that day forward he took up the position his father once had, praying for Mahal to give him the strength to endure as his father had.

The old adviser had been against the quest from the beginning; Balin had not wished to see Thorin fall like the Prince's grandfather had in his mad quest to retake Moria. A horde of orcs was nothing in comparison to the probability of Smaug sitting on the mountain of gold, alive, deep within Erebor.

Yet here they were a year and some later, dragon dead and kingdom reclaimed.

It was a miracle that they had all survived the winter. Hunting and gathering had done very little to strengthen the food rations; everyone had to tighten their belts and hope that they could endure the extreme rationing. Now that spring was upon them, enough time had passed between now and the end of the battle; talks of trade could finally be revisited – though Balin had been dreading this day since Thorin had been adamant in putting them off two and some months ago. Balin had tried his best to ease Thorin into the idea of trade with the Woodland Realm, though the King saw fit to fight him on the idea at every turn. It was difficult to explain to someone so put off by the thought of trade with elves that the entire area circling the mountain was completely desolate – it would take another miracle just to grow something.

Thankfully Thorin was a little more amenable to trade with Bard, but unfortunately they were in just as much need for trade as Erebor. He was also a little more willing to part with half of Bilbo's fourteenth share of the treasure that the Hobbit had promised to the future King of Dale, though much less so to the other half which was meant to go to Thranduil.

And here they were; men, elves, dwarves all tightly packed in a stuffy room, sitting around a table arguing. Balin sighed, already tired and definitely too old to be dealing with children and dwarflings. Somehow he had managed to forget Ori, and Thorin had weaseled his way out of the chamber with the excuse of “finding the scribe,” if only to put off negotiating for a little while longer. Even against Balin's insistence, Dwalin remained outside to room to _guard_ the door so these _very important talks_ were not interrupted.

Tensions were already beginning to run high before Thorin reentered the small chambers, Ori in tow.

“So glad that you decided to grace us once more with your presence, King Under the Mountain,” Thranduil said smoothly over the noise. Balin rolled his eyes, already done with the elf's pompous attitude. Thankfully Thorin ignored the obvious bait and took his place at the huge octagonal table.

Ori situated himself on a chair on Thorin's left side. Bilbo, who had been following closely behind the scribe, positioned himself where he could see all the inhabitants of the room; Ori dutifully ignored him.

This was a time when Bilbo was very glad no one aside from Ori could see him. Bilbo could observe with an attentive eye without having to mind where he was staring. Out of his curiosity, Bilbo wanted to assist Ori, and by association all the dwarves, in further cementing peace between these three races.

Balin cleared his throat, trying to regain some semblance of order in the room; no one sitting around the table seemed to hear him. Dáin shot him a look before taking his war hammer in hand and slamming it down on the table. The force of the blow might have destroyed the table were it not made of enduring rock. The room went deathly silent, all eyes on the spot where Dáin's hammer now sat.

Balin sent him a grateful nod. “Now that we're all here, we may begin discussing the future of our peoples, so that there may be peace and perhaps trade between us all,” the old dwarf said diplomatically with a hopeful smile.

Naturally, it seemed that the odds were not in their favor when Thranduil opened his haughty mouth.

“The dwarf already knows my terms,” the elven King said uninterestedly, dusting off invisible particulates from his robe. “Your halfling promised half of his fourteenth share of treasure in exchange for my help. I expect half of it in diamonds and the other in gold – along with the white gems your grandfather denied me, of course.”

Bilbo flinched at his mentioning; the continued reminder of what he'd done behind Thorin's back stung a bit more each time. Bilbo watched Thorin's hands grip tightly around the armrests of his chair until his knuckles went white, the King's face twisting slowly into pure hatred.

Balin sighed, silently cursing Thranduil's talent for rubbing Thorin the wrong way, and Dáin too by the looks of him – the Iron Hills King was turning a color not dissimilar to his fiery hair.

“You will get what you are given,” Thorin ground out, holding back his snarl. “I will not have every diamond picked out from that mountain of gold to sate your greed. You do not deserve a single piece of that treasure.”

“My, my, what would your halfling think if he saw you going back on his promise, King Under the Mountain?” Thranduil smiled serenely, as if he were not trying to push Thorin's buttons on purpose. “If it were not for him, then this talk of peace and trade would not exist.”

Thorin's grip on his chair tightened even more, his face now a picture of unadulterated rage; the wound of loss was still raw for Thorin, and Thranduil knew it. Balin closed his eyes and counted to ten. His exasperation was reaching new record highs and the old adviser wondered if Bilbo might have helped diffuse such a situation were he here.

Bilbo was shocked that the elven King could be so callous toward Thorin, especially after Bilbo had nearly sacrificed himself for the effort. Thranduil was single-handedly destroying all possibilities for peace between Mirkwood and Erebor, and the elf looked as though he hadn't a single problem with that outcome. The elf seemed to be pressing all the right buttons too, and Bilbo could only watch as Thorin rocketed up out of his chair, knocking it over in his outburst, and began roaring in that guttural dwarf language. Bilbo had not a single clue as to what Thorin was saying, but if Bilbo were to hazard a guess, they were not nice things at all. Then Thranduil started in with Sindarin, but the speed at which the elf King spoke made it impossible to keep up, and Bilbo could only catch snatches of the elf's own immature insults.

Before he knew it, Bilbo was jumping up on the table, standing between both enraged King's, yelling at Thorin who could neither see nor hear him.

“Thorin Oakenshield!” the hobbit shouted. “How dare you let yourself be goaded into a fight; just give him the treasure already and request an emissary to speak on his behalf! The both of you are ridiculous!” Bilbo continued to shout, putting his whole body into his scolding; he shook an angry finger at the dwarf King, placing the other hand on his hip disapprovingly as he tapped a large hairy foot with extreme contempt. “I should have known that you would have no patience for this! You should be ashamed of yourself – if I were alive right now I'd give your ears such a twisting!”

Ori gaped at Bilbo who now stood on the table right in the middle of the argument, which had pulled the rest of the room in like a waterfall – everyone except for Bard, who sat in his chair hands clamped over his ears against the noise.

The scribe quickly found that he couldn't keep himself from snickering as Bilbo's threats continued to get more and more ridiculous with each passing moment, though Thorin couldn't head a single word of them – not that the hobbit could physically carry out any of these punishments; he covered his mouth with both hands in an earnest attempt to stifle his amusement.

Balin was at a loss for words, gaping just like his former apprentice. He watched completely flabbergasted as a hobbit – whom he thought to be dead – stood in the thick of the fighting, yelling at Thorin who was all but screaming at Thranduil; Balin quickly glanced hopelessly between all three. If he could see Bilbo, then surely Thorin and the rest of the those in the room could see the hobbit...

Yet none aside from Balin and Ori seemed to notice the little spit-fire of a hobbit threatening both elf and dwarf Kings with bodily harm if they could not see past their differences.

_What in Mahal's name is happening?_

 

*

 

After what seemed like hours, but in reality was really only ten minutes, Balin had gotten Dwalin to forcibly remove Thorin from the room, using a different door to avoid the diplomatic crisis that was sure to happen if both Thranduil and Thorin were allowed to continue their escalating argument. He knew from the beginning that this wouldn't be easy; it hadn't been easy for Fundin, and it probably wouldn't get any easier – he was too damn old for this.

Ori stumbled out of the door from which Thorin was dragged moments ago, face full of mirth as he laughed more freely now that the meeting was temporarily adjourned. Following behind Balin’s former apprentice was a hobbit –  Bilbo Baggins to be precise – who was chatting quietly to him. Balin was almost certain that what he had witnessed in the chamber was merely a trick of the eyes, but he couldn't explain why Ori was snickering again, presumably at whatever the supposed dead hobbit was saying.

Making sure no others lingered in the hall, Balin cleared his throat interrupting the both of them. “Ori – Master Baggins,” he said quietly, ushering them both over with a wave of his hand.

Ori froze and paled considerably, as Balin knew he would, shooting the hobbit – who was equally surprised – a worried look. “Y-You can see him?” Ori asked apprehensively, unsure what to do. Bilbo seemed to loosen up considerably in comparison.

“Yes, lad, I can see him. I don't suppose there's a story behind that?” Balin smirked, eyebrow raised inquisitively.

“It's a rather long story; I'm sure you'd like to hear it over a cup of tea,” Bilbo insisted with a watery smile. It was tough not to revert to his instinctual host nature as a ghost, but he had found himself doing it nonetheless.

“I think I could use a little less tea and a little more whiskey after that mess, I should think!” Balin winked.

Moving their little meeting from the corridor up to Balin's temporary office, Bilbo explained his side of the story, Ori dutifully filling in the rest before leaving them to talk privately. Balin was intrigued at the turn of events; he had never heard of such a feat in all his years.

“We three are very lucky to have you back then, Master Baggins,” Balin said after their story was finished. In light of everything, this was truly a blessing from Mahal. “You would be a valuable asset,  if you don't mind me saying, laddie.”

“I'm dead, what sort of valuable asset could I possibly be?” Bilbo frowned, fidgeting in his seat. He didn't know what Balin was hinting at in the slightest. “Please, just Bilbo – I don't have a need for such formality these days.”

Balin smiled sadly the hobbit's self-worth was completely non-existent. “If today was any indication, I suspect that you'd make a rather good diplomat, Bilbo.”

“I'm not exactly in a position to be a diplomat, Balin. I'd make a poor one as only three dwarves in an entire mountain can see me,” Bilbo chuckled ruefully.

“I disagree, you would make a very good diplomat. You had some rather interesting ideas when you were up on that table yelling at Thorin, I could certainly use the help if Erebor is to ever be truly restored. You of all people know how Thorin can be.”

“You heard that?” Bilbo grimaced, embarrassed that he'd let his irritation get the better of him. Bilbo saw Balin's point however, and for all his moaning and groaning about being unable to do anything to help, he sure was doing a good job of throwing the opportunity out the window.

“If anyone benefits the most from your advice, it would be Thorin,” Balin said tactfully. He was perhaps reaching a bit too far trying to persuade the hobbit.

Bilbo's expression turned pensive, thinking on the adviser’s words. Balin wasn't wrong, Thorin could get rather obstinate, and from what he witnessed of the meeting the old dwarf could certainly use an extra head – one that wasn't intent on destroying any future alliances at the very least. “I do have a couple of ideas, and I happen to know someone who might be able to help with growing things.”

“Excellent! It will be a pleasure to work with you again, Bilbo.” Balin grinned.

While this was a bizarre phenomena indeed, perhaps things weren't entirely out of Erebor's favor.


	5. Secret Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> April showers bring May flowers; It's time for Erebor to begin working towards growing things once again, and Gandalf sends his regards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING (just in case): mentions of a failed suicide attempt in the latter half of this chapter.
> 
> A little late, but sometimes things have a way of interrupting the best laid plans. As it happens, this chapter ended up being a little longer than the predecessors!
> 
> [Airebellah](http://airebellah.tumblr.com/) continues to be amazing, even when sick!
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://tea-blitz.tumblr.com/)

> _Greetings and salutations!_
> 
> _I hope that this letter finds you well. I am deeply sorry that I was not able to send word until now; between recovering after the battle and my journey to the Shire during the winter, I am afraid there were few opportunities to do so. You'll be happy to know that young Drogo Baggins has been allowed ownership of Bag End and all the contents within; the young Baggins was happy to kick Missus Lobelia Sackville-Baggins out of the hobbit hole. However, the Thain was particularly saddened to hear about the passing of his_ _cousin_ _._
> 
> _I am afraid that I haven't found anything concrete yet concerning our mutual friend. Hobbits are an old race and while I had heard of them – merely rumors mind you – when Sauron first rose to power, I never actually met a hobbit until they were firmly established in the Shire. You'll be interested to know, just as I when it was discovered, that a very long time ago the Shire did not exist – the entire area was barren land!_
> 
> _After a rather exhausting ritual I was able to commune with the Valar, having high hopes that they might divulge more pertinent information regarding a certain burglar. Suffice to say, I do not believe the hobbits who had the honor of observing such a rare sight appreciated my wonderful dance in the nude. I suspect that I may have miscounted the number of goats needed for the ritual and not nearly enough wine was consumed, for I was only given an obscure vision of where I might find something a little more detailed._
> 
> _Know that my search for the truth is far from over._
> 
> _Please convey my very best wishes to King Thorin and the rest of the company, and especially to our friend._
> 
> _Gandalf_

 

“You don't think he actually... –” Ori said, scrunching his face in disgust as looked over the letter again.

“I wouldn't put it past him,” Bilbo grimaced, wrinkling his nose. “It's certainly an image I _never_ wanted to see.” Gandalf was known to be a disturber of the peace, though his fireworks were the worst of it, as far Bilbo as knew anyway – he'd like to keep it that way, thank you very much!

As disgusted as he was to have the image of a nude wizard dancing about burned into his very soul, the letter was a huge relief. Though it was rather lacking in information, and Bilbo would have much preferred it if Gandalf had come to inform them of it in person. Bilbo had lived in the Shire all his life; the rolling green hills and thick forests were all he knew. Imagining a time when such a lush and flourishing place didn't exist was _strange_.

“What do you think Gandalf meant when he said the Shire was once a barren land?” Ori asked, setting the letter down on the table.

“I wouldn't even know, honestly. The Shire has been around for a long time, and our history books don't mention such a thing.”

“We have very little information on hobbits,” the scribe murmured quietly, mentally running through all the books he had read or come across during his time restoring the library. “If we _do_ have anything, I doubt it would be very accurate.”

Bilbo nodded thoughtfully; hobbits weren't exactly friendly towards outsiders and they were definitely not so forthcoming with information, so Bilbo doubted the quality of any information dwarves might have written about hobbits. His father had been an excellent historian, and Bilbo had learned all that he knew from Bungo. But in all his years, even he had never come across anything that might have mentioned how the Shire actually came to be after his hobbit ancestors had made their way West.

“Perhaps the men who lived in that area knew something or saw something, maybe the elves...– ” Ori trailed off distractedly, paging through a thick tome filled with his neat hand writing – a catalog by the look of it.

“It wouldn't hurt to try,” Bilbo said encouragingly. He wasn't so sure the men, or even elves, would know anything more than the scholarly dwarves who had somehow managed to piece together a book about hobbits; Bilbo didn't say so out loud though. Ori looked perfectly happy to puzzle this whole mystery out, and Bilbo was loathe to take that away from the dwarf. “You look like you have everything handled; there are some things I should probably see to.”

Ori waved him off, completely enthralled with the new cryptic pieces of information.

Bilbo smiled, passing through the walls to leave the scribe to his work. He had his own work now too; figuring out his mystery was important, but Balin had given him purpose again. There was a satisfying challenge in trying to work around Thorin's legendary stubbornness while finding solutions to problems that would not only benefit one people, but all those living in close proximity to Erebor.

Conversing with Balin was a cathartic routine, and Bilbo felt _lighter_ for it.

Bilbo appreciated that Balin looked to him for his insight; he was especially ecstatic that the old adviser asked him to assist in writing a letter to the Shire, asking after supplies to help with the next growing season. It would be months before the shipment actually arrived – the supplies were to be picked up by a dwarven caravan passing through the Shire – but now Bilbo wondered if Gandalf had a hand in convincing the Thain to send the requested supplies.

For now they would make due with what could be weaseled out of negotiations with Prince Legolas.

Thorin had looked surprised to hear about _that_ development from Balin the evening after receiving the Thain's letter; it was as though the King thought that no hobbit would be willing to assist those responsible for the death of one of their own. Seeing Thorin so drained, and so surprised at Balin's news had made Bilbo feel petty. It was a terrible feeling as hobbits were not known to hold such deep-seated grudges; they were easy to hurt but quick to forgive. However Bilbo found it difficult to forgive Thorin; he knew very well how strong a hold madness had had on Thorin's sanity, and if Thorin had not been so heavily cloistered by his illness, the dwarf would have kept his honor and his word.

Bilbo couldn't have been more happy watching Thorin and the rest of the company finally charge out of the mountain to rally the rest of Dáin's men during the battle.

At the end of the day, Bilbo knew that there would be no reconciliation between them; the hurts that the King had inflicted upon the hobbit during his madness felt so abyssal and even now they festered petulantly. If he could somehow transcend death itself – dwarves seeing him aside – Bilbo wasn't so sure he could manage to work up the courage or the patience to actually speak to Thorin.

Bilbo pushed his thoughts away from Thorin and focused instead on his job. The first shipment of seedlings and fresh soil from Mirkwood was to arrive this afternoon.

 

*

 

War is savage; it is an unyielding beast which threatens to consume everything in its rampage.

What people fail to ever mention about war, however, is that you are not only in danger of enemy onslaught; there is the very undeniable reality that someone on your side of the fighting might strike you down. Dwarven warriors are always taught from a very young age to take care of their shield-brothers and -sisters, and be aware of their surroundings.

Azanulbizar was barely a fuzzy memory these days, but Bifur remembered with stunning clarity the moment in which the axe thrown by a comrade buried itself in his head. It had not been on purpose, of course; the throwing axe was meant for an orc he had been fighting, a fight that he had been sorely losing. He recalled turning awkwardly, the orc's heavy mass unbalancing him on the uneven rocky slope, and then an explosion of agonizing pain.

The orc had thought him dead or had left him for dead at least; Bifur had woken days later in a dilapidated and dirty tent and it had felt like his head was split right down the middle.

The frenzy of war always collects its dues; the dwarf who had thrown the axe – Jarin – was dead. The lad was only just past his seventy-fifth winter, and had unwittingly saved Bifur's life. Such a wound was considered life-threatening due to its nature, and those few field healers who had managed to survive the battle warned he was likely to keel over at any moment. Óin – out of all the rest – was confident that Bifur would be fine so long as the axe wasn't removed; the handle of the axe was sawed off and the rest was left buried in the bone, cauterized, and left to heal.

Bifur had and always would have a peaceful nature despite what the other races said about dwarves. He knew all too well how fierce war could be – the axehead wedged in his skull served as a persistent reminder that war brings only pain, ultimately disfiguring both sides. It had left him more than disfigured; it had stolen away his aglâb, spoken words, now only able to communicate in iglishmêk and ancient Khuzdul.

There were many who believed that his injury had left him simple-minded, and the pitying looks were infuriating. Upon the remnant army's return to Ered Luin, Bifur had laid down his weapon and took up carving once more, keeping his family close and distancing himself from all others.

Growing up Bifur gained a deep love for plants, flowers especially, their beauty often featuring in his craft. Bifur's father spent many years berating him for such an un-dwarvish trait; when his father had discovered Bifur's secret garden – a little thing hidden outside the mountain – he had destroyed it. Eventually yielding under the pressure, Bifur conformed to what was considered _proper_ for a strong child of Mahal – right up until his father's throat was slit after a particularly rowdy tavern brawl.

Despite his father's hatred and having to march off to war, Bifur continued to maintain his love for green growing things. Traveling to the Shire and gazing upon rolling emerald hills, gardens and farm plots overflowing with vibrant life had been shocking. Never before had he seen so much green in one place.

Bifur had taken an instant liking to the hobbits of the Shire, Bilbo especially. Though Bilbo was rather fussy he had a wonderful garden. Bifur's limited communication made it impossible to have a proper conversation with the hobbit and his scar made him seem all the more intimidating; Khuzdul was a harsh language after all, and iglishmêk only accentuated its harshness. Opportunities to speak with Bilbo remained non-existent.

The first leg of their journey he had watched Bofur tease Bilbo fiercely.

_'You shouldn't tease him like that,' Bifur signed quickly to Bofur as he balanced his bowl of stew on his lap. He watched as Bilbo was served his food last; the little hobbit meandered his way from the rest of the group, face pale and downcast from Bofur's_ _incessant teasing._

_Bofur chuckled_ as _he settled down next to Bifur, leaning comfortably against a hollowed log._ _'Hobbits are a fussy bunch, he'll get used to it,' Bofur signed with one hand, digging into his stew with the spoon in the other._

_Bifur frowned; Bofur knew what death was like, and teasing the Burglar about a fire-breathing dragon was in poor taste, even for a dwarf._ _But he doubted his cousin would listen to him further on the subject so he let the matter drop. Instead he picked up his bowl of stew and dug in._

Somehow they had all managed to survive trolls and orcs, and ended up in Rivendell. Bifur never harbored the same hatred for elves like others in the company, and he found himself just as content to be in the elvish city as he had been in the Shire. He admired the stone masonry and all the beautiful woodwork, but most of all he admired the gardens that seemed to be _everywhere_.

It seemed that he was not the only one admiring the beauty of the elven city. The hobbit was instantly enchanted by the sight, and Bifur couldn't blame Bilbo – it was likely the first time in his life that the hobbit had left his home. While everyone grumbled and groused about all things elvish, he and Bilbo wandered about endlessly, without a single care; all thoughts about life-threatening dangers and an arduous quest were left forgotten, replaced by sweet-smelling gardens.

It was purely coincidence that he and Bilbo had bumped into each other during their roaming. The hobbit had turned into a sputtering mess of apologies. With the obvious communication issue, Bifur couldn't calm the hobbit down, and in a moment of haste he grabbed at the flowers nearest to him, nearly yanking the entire vine from the pillar it had climbed. Bilbo watched with wide eyes as Bifur offered him a hand, delicately cradling squished jasmine flowers in his palm.

Bifur learned that afternoon, in one of the many gardens of Rivendell, that hobbits had meanings for many plants; the white jasmine he had haphazardly plucked meant _amiability_. The awe in Bilbo's face when the hobbit had carefully scooped the damaged flowers from his large dwarven hands was an image Bifur would cherish until he was finally returned to the stone.

Bifur should have died in the battle of the five armies. Since Moria, Bifur had visited Óin frequently for checkups to assess the long-term effects – if any – of his head wound. The healer was completely certain that Bifur would be fine aside from the communication barrier, but remained uncertain whether or not ill-effects would crop up if the axehead was removed.

As the battle for Erebor progressed, Bifur had decimated groups of foolish orcs that dared to enter his line of sight. At one point he had found himself back in a familiar scenario; he had been disarmed by a rather lucky orc and Bifur waited for the moment when he'd feel a flair of pain in his head that never actually came. Fortunately a weaponless dwarf wasn't a powerless dwarf; years of combat training had prepared him for situations where he'd not be able to fight with a weapon, though fighting barehanded was not a popular fighting style among dwarves.

The orc had the advantage of height, yet that same advantage gave Bifur better maneuverability over the massive, armored hulk lumbering around. Fighting came naturally to Bifur, an instinct he always greeted like an old friend, so it felt like a simple matter bringing the stupid beast to its knees. Bifur lunged forward, impaling the orc with the end of the axehead protruding from his own head. Such an attack was no doubt unorthodox, but with no weapon, it was all Bifur could have done.

At the time, there had been little concern for the consequences of killing an enemy in that manner. But in the aftermath Bifur found himself helplessly stuck to the orc, thankfully going unnoticed until Bombur had found him. Even with the two of them, Bifur could not be freed from the orc body, and it had been increasingly dangerous to loiter about while there had still been many bloodthirsty orcs littering the battlefield. It wasn't until Bofur had come around that the three of them managed to finally pry Bifur free.

To everyone's surprise, the axe had stayed embedded in the orc's head, and a gap was all that remained in Bifur's forehead. There had been little time to explore the new development on the battlefield, but by the time it finally wound down Bifur's aglâb was fully restored to him and he was still alive, only to discover that Bilbo was not.

Bifur made sure to carve as many little jasmines into Bilbo's pine box as he could.

These days Bifur mourned the loss of his unapproachable, intimidating visage. It was true that many dwarves had thought him an invalid, and there was no denying the frustration that had caused, but now that he could actually speak he actually felt like the simple-minded fool everyone thought he was. His injury kept him from speaking anything but ancient Khuzdul, it was cruder but it was clear spoken. With his speech fully restored, his words were now horribly broken when he spoke them – he could not complete full sentences without stuttering or cutting off words.

He had become more anti-social and isolated than ever before, spending his time wandering around the now reclaimed city. There were many parts of the city that remained untouched by the restoration groups, giving him solace away from the worried glances of the company and the dull stares of the Iron Hills dwarves and the men.

There was only silence as Bifur walked down a corridor, blessedly surrounded by inky darkness. He didn't have a potent stone sense, but it didn't matter; he had walked this area throughout the winter, knowing exactly where he was headed without the need of sight nor light. Turning another corner into a new corridor, Bifur could see the soft glow leaking out from under a set of double-doors.

Bifur twisted the knob on one of the doors; it creaked eerily as he pushed it open and he was greeted by the room's inhabitants once more.

 

*

 

Balin frowned, inspecting the supplies that were set aside near the main gate.

“Is there something wrong, Balin?” Bilbo asked, sidling up next to the adviser. The delivery was bigger than he had first thought it would be; a lot more than Balin had negotiated for anyway.

The adviser lifted the hand that Bilbo now saw held a bit of parchment, a list of all that was delivered scribbled on it. “It appears that several sacks of soil, a couple boxes of seed packets, and some seedling carriers are unaccounted for,” Balin sighed, rubbing a hand over his face tiredly. “The on-duty guards say that they double-checked the delivery when it arrived; everything was here, and now we are missing supplies.”

Now it was Bilbo's turn to frown. They had both worked hard to get these supplies. Legolas proved to be a much better diplomat than his father; Thranduil had been trying to steer negotiations to the disadvantage of the dwarves, and by association, the men. “We still have enough supplies without what's missing, right?”

“Aye, there is more than enough here,” Balin nodded.

“Then we can proceed as planned, and with the supplies from the Shire we should be set for next spring too,” Bilbo smiled. “I'll see if I can't find out what happened to those missing supplies though, those seedlings won't lost very long without proper care.”

“I'll let Bard know that his men can come and pick up the supplies. We can start planting immediately.”

The missing supplies weighed on Bilbo for the rest of the week. He couldn't for the life of him figure out where they might have gone, yet he hadn't heard a shred of conversation about it; someone in the mountain had to have seen them being carted away!

The missing supplies were not the only strange occurrence in Erebor.

“Ye haven't seen Bifur, have ye?” Bofur asked, settling himself in front of the fireplace in the sitting room of the apartment he shared with his brother and cousin.

“I haven't seen him in a while, actually. Why, is something the matter?” Bilbo asked, his brows furrowing in concern.

Bofur was silent for a moment as he stared into the flames licking at the walls of the fireplace. “I'm sure he's fine,” the miner finally uttered. It sounded more like a self-reassurance than anything.

Bilbo wasn't so easily put off the subject; he could see the worry clear as day etched onto Bofur's face. He had spent most of his time with Balin these days than Bofur or Ori, and it wasn't as if he could spend time with others in the company when they couldn't see him. The miner's worry for Bifur seemed more than just a passing thought.

“I don't think you believe that for one moment, Bofur,” Bilbo murmured softly.

Bofur sighed, the worry all the more evident now that he relaxed his content facade. “Bifur hasn't been himself since the battle – more distant. We don't see much of him outside of meals, Bombur an' I are worried.”

“There's something more, isn't there?” Bilbo asked. He could tell that Bofur wasn't telling him everything; Bilbo didn't mean to pry, but whatever it was that the miner wasn't telling seemed to be causing him pain.

Bilbo watched as Bofur's eyes glassed over; the hatted dwarf's breathing turned labored, as though he were trying to fight back a sob. “A long time ago – after Moria... Bifur wasn't the same dwarf he was when he left,” Bofur began, his voice gravelly with emotion. “He wasn't in a happy place, mind ya, when came back. Seein' his comrades dyin' an' nearly dyin' himself; his injury did more damage to him than just his skull.”

Bofur paused, trying to keep himself together as tears ran down from the corners of his eyes. “We've never lived an easy life, Bilbo, and Bifur had a harder time of it after his injury. It's not unusual for veterans of war to...” Bofur sniffled, opening and shutting his mouth as he tried to find the words to finish his explanation. “Bifur has been a rock at my back since ma passed, it was a hard thing walking in on him lying on the floor, foamin' at the mouth. Poor sod had eaten poisonous mushrooms.”

“He tried to... –” Bilbo gasped through the hands he'd slapped over his mouth.

Bofur's shoulder's shook, chest heaving as he tried to contain a sob. “When he woke up in a cot in the healing ward – I don't want to find him dead this time, Bilbo.”

“Shhh, it'll be ok,” Bilbo tried to sooth, scooting closer to the dwarf. He wished he could wrap Bofur up in his arms and comfort the dwarf who looked absolutely wretched. Bilbo would do what he could for the miner, but he hoped that Bofur's worries were unfounded. “We'll figure it out, everything will be all right.”

 

*

 

Bilbo had tailed Bifur throughout the next day.

The dwarf spent most of the cool spring morning helping with construction in Dale, hefting chunks of rubble into large piles separated into usable and unusable material. The dwarf only acknowledged those who spoke to him with curt nods, otherwise avoiding people as much as he was able. After his work in Dale, Bifur sat down for his mid-day meal up on the battlements. His daily routine continued on late in the evening, until he slipped into the kitchens to pilfer a couple rolls and a few thick pieces of salted meat, avoiding the communal dining hall. Bofur had explained to Bilbo that his cousin never had his meals with the company since the battle.

Bilbo followed Bifur from the kitchens, following close behind as the halls that they walked became increasingly dark. Even as a ghost Bilbo's eyesight remained much the same when he was alive – he couldn't see a thing. He thought it strange that Bifur hadn’t bothered grabbing a candle or a torch off one of the sconces in one of the lit corridors they had traveled through. The trip was a quiet one, the only noise being Bifur's boots meeting the stone floor. Bilbo might have thought a bit creepy if he had a body to be afraid in.

A couple turns later Bilbo noticed that there was light bleeding out into the corridor into which they had just turned. It wasn't bright, more like the dim light of an early morning sunrise just as the sun began peeking over the horizon.

“What in the... –” Bilbo murmured out loud as Bifur turned the knob on one of the doors, swinging it open. Before the hobbit could see what was hidden in the dimly lit room, Bifur closed the door.

Thankfully, doors were no longer a troublesome obstacle for the burglar. Bilbo passed right through the door and what he saw on the other side was not at all what he had been expecting.

The room was big, bordering on excessive. In the middle was a massive fountain filled with murky, stagnant water – Bilbo couldn't even guess at what the statue sitting in the middle of it was meant to be.  The walls were decorated with intricate mosaics made with all manner of gems and metals, skillfully placed to depict a beautiful, breathtaking landscape; it was almost as if Bilbo had stepped into the Shire. The ceiling was covered in glass; many of the panes were caked with scum, though several looked like they had been wiped clean recently. The rest of the space was covered in dirt; most of it appeared old and dead, and if Bilbo could feel the earth beneath his feet it would likely feel dead too.

Bilbo caught Bifur in the far side of the room, the fountain in the middle of the room blocking whatever it was the dwarf was fiddling with in the corner. Curiosity bade him to move forward, walking around the fountain to get a better view.

“A garden?” Bilbo gasped softly, eyes wide with utter shock. He definitely wasn't expecting this!

There were emptied sacks – which had held fresh soil at some point – strewn around the small area Bifur occupied. The missing seedlings were blanketed in the newly laid dirt; Bifur was in the process of watering them with a dented water can.

“This is where you've been going?” Bilbo asked no one in particular.

Bifur stilled; the watering can remained angled downward, pouring water over a group of seedlings and drowning them. The dwarf had made sure to check before heading to his hideaway, this was his own place... no one should be here with him, but Bifur knew something was _wrong_. He recognized that voice and it shouldn’t be here, not with him.

“...Bilbo?” Bifur struggled to say, the name coming out as _Beelbo_ instead.

A familiar feeling passed over Bilbo, rippling through him – _happiness, relief_.  “Bofur has been worried about you, you know?”

The dwarf turned around slowly. The shocked look on his face was rather adorable, Bilbo thought. “He-re. All time,” Bifur grunted, eyes quickly glancing over his little garden.

Bilbo let himself inspect the rest of the staging area. There were obvious novice mistakes, but the garden was well done for the most part. “You did all of this, by yourself?” Bilbo asked as his eyes continued to roam.

“All m-me,” Bifur puffed up a little. “Safe here. No other–” the dwarf struggled with his words, growling in frustration when he couldn't form the rest of the sentence, his body going rigid with anger.

“This is a very wonderful garden, Bifur,” Bilbo said kindly, trying to sooth the anger. “What is this place? I've never seen anything like it.”

“Made for p-public, now safe pla-ace,” Bifur tried to explain, but it was hard for him to convey what this room was for. It had taken him all winter to restore the greenhouse; all the plants that had been here previously had been removed, a couple panels of glass had fallen out of the ceiling, and several more were cracked. He cleaned and polished undamaged panels and restored the sun stones that he had found in a storage room. This room was his sanctuary, a secret garden for him to hide in when dealing with people became too much of a burden.

“You are r-real?” Bifur asked finally, uncertain as to whether or not that Bilbo's appearance in his secret garden was some hallucination.

“I'm as real as this garden, my friend.”

Bilbo smiled, finding it ironic that he would find Bifur now like he had in Rivendell those many months ago. Gardens represented rebirth and healing in hobbit culture, it was rather fitting that Bifur would be the one to tend Erebor's first new garden.


	6. Interlude: Gandalf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf has not been idle since the battle and he is not against traversing Middle-Earth to find what he is looking for; weather nor terrain will keep him from the answers he seeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was already not canon compliant; from here on out I'll be screwing with a lot of Lore, hobbit Lore more specifically (it's already been a big headache). I hate writing Tom Bombadil, for the record. 
> 
> [Airebellah](http://airebellah.tumblr.com/) is a Maia in disguise.
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://tea-blitz.tumblr.com/)

Gandalf fingered the letter that lay hidden within the inside pocket of his robe for the hundredth time. It had come to him shortly after arriving in Lothlórien and he had pondered it all throughout his stay in the elven city, and even now as he traversed the perilous winter road through the Misty Mountains.

The letter from young Ori was not at all unexpected. What _ was _ unexpected, however, was the contents of the letter; his ears still reddened from all the obscenities dictated by Bilbo and written second hand by Ori. Gandalf knew that there was a small chance that Ori would divulge all the information to Bilbo about the hobbit's situation, as he and Bilbo were quick friends despite the young dwarf's suspicious and overly protective siblings.

Gandalf had hoped there would have been time for him to do more searching before Bilbo found out that the Wizard could see him. He had to right his wrong, though it was likely that he would never be free of his torment.

The library in Lothlórien was arguably the largest library on Arda; it was centuries old and far more thorough than Gondor's. As magnificent as it was, the silvan elves that had lived in the golden-wood for centuries hadn't written a single thing concerning hobbits. Gandalf had spoken with Galadriel on the matter at length; it was a surprise that the longest lived race in the world's history knew nothing of hobbits. They were barely a rumor in this part of the world when Sauron had been stirring up trouble, not even he had heard of them, but knowing that the race was around even during _ those _ dark days was enough of a thread to follow.

That little thread was reason enough for Gandalf to make his journey West as winter swept in, and so soon after recovering from both his capture at Dol Guldur and the battle for Erebor.

The thin, freezing air of the mountains made his chest ache, but it was important that he reach the Shire before winter’s end. He owed Bilbo much, seeing to the hobbit's affairs was simply a drop in the ocean by comparison. Where once his greatest fear was Sauron, Gandalf now feared failing Bilbo. His determination to seek atonement guided him through the rough winter storms that had gripped the mountain range since he began his journey.

The grim reservations that Gandalf harbored rang true when he had finally reached Rivendell.

Rivendell's library was only a small fraction of what Lothlórien's was; Elrond was only familiar with the hobbits who now resided in the Shire and had been surprised to hear that they may have once lived East of the Misty Mountains – if they _ had _ passed near Rivendell on their way West he would have certainly heard about it.

The old Wizard felt his heart tear a little more when he had explained to the Lord of Imladris of Bilbo's untimely death; the company's short stay in Rivendell was all that it took for the elven King to befriend Bilbo. It was an interesting sight to behold, watching as Elrond's sorrow morphed into bafflement when he explained further that in the wake of Bilbo's death, the hobbit had become a ghost. No such feat had been recorded since the men of the White Mountains – Oathbreakers –  had betrayed Isildur during the Last Alliance, who even now dwelled within the caverns deep beneath Dwimorberg and the valley of Harrowdale.

There was little reason to remain in Rivendell for an extended stay, so Gandalf continued on. His next stop would be the Shire; each step he took added to the weight already hanging around his shoulders like a heavy chain. It reminded him of all that he forced Bilbo to leave behind and he spent an unhealthy amount of time pondering his reasoning for needing a hobbit in the first place.

Gandalf had been rather fond of Bilbo's mother; she was a strong willed hobbits whose thirst for adventure was rather infectious. Hobbits were small beings, easily overlooked and underestimated but Gandalf had witnessed first hand their capacity to show compassion to even those who mocked their short stature, chubby bellies, and large furry feet. He had greatly exaggerated the tale of Bandobras Took and the Battle of Greenfields only to try and spark the dormant fire within Bilbo. In the end it wasn't he that had ignited the flame, it had been the dwarves.

He was used to persuading, in some cases strong arming, mortals into agreeing with his decisions; forcing others to agree with him was Gandalf's biggest flaw, using his duty to the Valar as the justification for such an underhanded method. He had thought that it would be no difficult matter speaking with the Thain about Bilbo's home and possessions, the whole living will idea was rather ingenious, however Gandalf felt like a tapestry that unraveled each time he had to tell someone of Bilbo's death. Bringing the news of Bilbo's death to Thain Fortinbras II, cousin to Bilbo, was not something he'd ever want to repeat. Bilbo's anger was fierce but his cousin was an angry beast by comparison. Tooks should _ never _ be trifled with.

The Thain's anger was not brought down on him, _ thankfully _ . From what Gandalf had heard in passing, Fortinbras had run the Sackville-Bagginses right out of Bag End, putting the fear of the Valar in them; it would have truly been a sight to behold.

The next order of business was to visit the Mathom-house in Michel Delving.

Hobbits did not keep a library like the men or elves did; many scholarly hobbits kept their own personal libraries and no hobbit was keen on letting strangers peruse their belongings – not even Gandalf who had often visited by invitation of the Old Took. The Mathom-house was a massive smial, one of the oldest in all the Shire, used to store all sorts of antiquities. Room after room was filled with memorabilia; many collections dated back to when Arnor was more than just ruins covered in dirt and overgrowth – and some even older still. There were countless sets of weapons and several mannequins wearing worn leather armor, a couple display cases were filled with old jewelry, and countless tables had been covered with gaudy ceramic tableware. Walls were covered in paintings, old tapestries and several maps that depicted the progressive growth of the Shire with each iteration.

It took at least two hours to go through each room until Gandalf had discovered a large musty room filled with numerous floor-to-ceiling bookshelves – each shelf crammed with books heavy enough to bow them. Gandalf went through each shelf thoroughly – spread out over three days – but the search ultimately turned up nothing of what he needed. He had learned more about tailoring and leatherworking than he'd ever cared to know, but he had been so sure that the hobbits would have the information for which he was looking. It was their history he was searching after all, and the wizard just couldn't believe there wasn't _ anything _ to be found.

Gandalf had reached the end of the thread he was pulling, and with no other options the Wizard turned to the Valar for help.

The races of Middle-Earth often prayed to their respective Vala for guidance and protection, though the Valar refused to meddle with the lives of those that dwelled on Arda, sending Maiar in their stead. The Istari were Maiar in forms recognizable by the races that lived on the mortal plane, and they too were unable to speak directly to the Valar. _ But _ there was a way to open communication. Gandalf spent the next two weeks gathering the necessary items – candles, specially made incense, rare mushrooms – needed for his meditation. The items he required were easy to procure, but he had to wait for the light of a full moon before the ritual itself could take place. Coincidentally, the next full moon fell on the eve of the same night in April the company had descended upon Bilbo's extremely reluctant hospitality.

In the room he had rented at the Green Dragon, Gandalf set the candles out in a circle with enough room for him to sit in the middle and lit them all. In front of him, he placed the little plate on which the incense cone sat. Grabbing the candle closest to him, Gandalf lit the incense and quickly returned the candle to is place in the circle. Using the mushrooms he had gathered, Gandalf had brewed a concoction that would lull him into a temporary dream-state, which he quaffed before the incense could burn out completely.

After a few moments of deep breathing, taking the pungent smell into his lungs, Gandalf felt himself drifting away. It was almost as if he were sinking to the bottom of a lake. He felt weightless and extremely mellow as though the woes of the world did not hold him in their iron vice. Darkness surrounded Gandalf at all angles but he was not covered by it. Slowly the light returned; soft blues and blurry greens and a smudge of browns shimmered around him until his vision teetered between murky and clear. The area he occupied was clear and vibrant, but beyond that everything was blurred, muted colors. His feet were firmly planted now on lively green grass, he felt the gentle breeze as it whistled by, and heard the babbling of a river. In this place Gandalf felt at peace, welcomed even.

As he marveled at the beauty of this clearing, the rest of the vision materialized and a lopsided cottage now sat in the once empty landscape. It was covered in ivy, flowers grew _ on _ the roof, and all sorts of wild flowers encompassed the area around it. The scenery changed and Gandalf found himself sitting inside the cottage at a well-used wooden table; in the background he could hear someone speaking; the voice was not friendly nor was it entirely hostile. Gandalf could not hear what was being said as the words were muffled, but then a book was thrown on the table in front of him. While it looked like a simple journal, the sort Bilbo had taken with him on the journey, there was something about the book that Gandalf couldn't place – it _ felt _ important and _ looked _ important, though he could not understand the markings that were laid into its cover. The voice was a little clearer now, with obvious agitation in the tone, and it sounded like –

The thought was momentarily forgotten as the scene blackened once more.

_ * _

Gandalf spent the next day going over the dream that Irmo had granted him.

The place he had seen in his vision was not one he recognized, yet it felt familiar. It was not a wholly welcoming feeling, more of a strange mixture of safety and foreboding.There was a darkness there, though not evil in nature – a presence that was natural but aggressive, _ dangerous _ . There had been another presence, one that was certainly pure evil, but thankfully far off in the opposite direction.

The voice Gandalf had heard was familiar, friendly but harsh – obviously unsettled by Gandalf's presence in the cottage. Oh. _ Oh _ ... Of course he hadn't recognized the cottage right away –  it hadn’t been covered in plants back then when he had first met _ Tom Bombadil _ .

Tom had been on Arda long before the Istari were sent down to offer aid against Sauron. The Maia was one of Yavanna's, sent to look after all the Green Lady had wrought, compounded with the Ents that Eru had crafted to protect her creations. Gandalf hadn't seen the Maia in a _ very _ long time, but had Irmo meant for him to hear Tom.

The old wizard figured that the Maia must live close by, for what other reason would the Vala had shown him a forest clearing?

Finding out what the hobbits knew of Tom Bombadil was a rather difficult task now that the entirety of the Shire knew of Bilbo's death. Many were tight lipped, offering icy apologies – ' _I'm afraid I don't know anyone by that name_ ,' while others just sneered, glared, or simply walked away. Farmer Maggot was a stern hobbit, but with some buttering up – ' _your crops look absolutely fantastic, how ever do you get your carrots to grow so big_?' – the crotchety hobbit was all too willing to point Gandalf in the direction of Tom's clearing in the Old Forest.

The scenery was exactly how Gandalf had seen in his vision; the vibrant colors of the flowers, the babbling river nearby, the cool breeze. He walked down the path to the door and knocked.

“Don't worry about it my dear, I'll get it!” a loud voice called out jovially.

The door was yanked open and Tom Bombadil stood before him, a big grin spread across his face nearly hidden under a thick beard.

“Tom Bombadil, at your service! And to whom do I owe such an unexpected pleasure?” Tom said cheerfully.

“Very well met indeed!” Gandalf greeted with a half bow. “I am Gandalf, Gandalf the Gray and I am in need of assistance. Perhaps you –”

“I knew I recognized you,” Tom growled, his friendly smile twisting into an ugly sneer.

Gandalf frowned as he recalled he and Tom had not parted on good terms last they met. The Maia had not taken well to the Wizard's incessant meddling. “It has been a while, my friend.”

“Who is at the door, dear?” a muffled female voice rang out, interrupting whatever it was Tom was about to say.

“Just a meddling Wizard, my love,” Tom yelled back. “We are not friends, Olórin. I don't know what it is you want,” Tom whispered harshly.

“It's impor–” Gandalf tried to say before he was interrupted.

“No, I don't want to know. Whatever it is, it's likely your fault and I'll not help you”

Tom hit the nail on the head, and Gandalf would have to admit as much if he expected to wrangle Tom in helping him. “It was _ my _ fault that a hobbit was killed.”

It was not the way Gandalf wanted him to find out, as Tom fiercely protected the inhabitants of the Shire. The timely intervention of Tom's wife, Goldberry, was a reprieve that the Wizard was sorely thankful for; Tom couldn't deny his wife her request to let the Wizard into their home.

Tea was served and both he and Tom were left to _ catch up _ , as the lady of the house had so quaintly put it, and Gandalf once more shared the story of Bilbo Baggins. It was a much more uncomfortable affair compared to the last three times he had spoken of Bilbo, and Tom only became more irritated as the story progressed into its downward spiral after the debacle in the Misty Mountains.

“And you just buried him there?!” Tom barked incredulously. His hands were balled up into fists on the table in front of him.

Gandalf remained silent, giving a curt nod in affirmation.

“Yavanna's breath! For all the snooping you do, you know very little. Stay here,” Bombadil ordered, getting out of his chair and leaving the room. The Wizard heeded the command, not daring to test his host's patience anymore than he had already.

When the Maia returned he dropped a journal onto the middle of the table. “I'm not going to sit here and school you on a history you shouldn't even know; it isn't your place,” Tom said coolly, retaking his seat once more. “I was sent here for a reason, and the specifics are none of your business. All that you need to know can be found in that book. It's as old as your human form and I expect you to take good care of it. _ Do not _ show anyone else. The contents of that book are not widely known and could be used to dangerous effect,” Tom finished gravely.

Gandalf pulled the leather-bound journal towards him. Gently he pulled open the cover, leafing through a couple pages and skimming the time-worn parchment inside. There were many references to a barren, inhospitable landscape and an exchange that had been made. What caught the Wizard's attention was a reference to a phenomena called a Vigil – a strange occurrence that had come about in the wake of the agreement which appeared frequently in the entries.

“This is–” Gandalf trailed off breathlessly, eyes widening with realization.

“The origin of the Shire, yes. Now I've had quite enough of Wizards for ages to come and it will be far too soon when we meet again.”

*

The journal was exactly what he had been searching for, and Gandalf was very intent on scouring every word written in it. As exciting as it was to finally make some headway into his personal mission, the Wizard found himself drained and he had a letter to write still.

In an odd attempt to cheer himself up, Gandalf began penning a very exaggerated recanting of his journey thus far. It was unlikely that Ori or Bilbo would find its contents  very entertaining, though Gandalf found the bit about nude dancing rather amusing, but he  made sure to add a vague mentioning of his recent findings concerning the Shire as well as best wishes for all the Company.

Perhaps one day soon he would be able to share this treasure trove of history personally.


	7. Nightsky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you retake it, they will come!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last week I had an issue with conflicting interests which in turn led to a bout of procrastination. Better [extremely] late than never, right? Longish chapter with a chance of feels.
> 
> [Airebellah](http://airebellah.tumblr.com/) is spectacular. This chapter likely would not have played out the way it did without her help.
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://tea-blitz.tumblr.com/)

There were times when Bilbo would look at his calendar and wonder, _ where have the days gone _ ?

Time slipped through his hands like the sands of an hourglass, and it felt like only yesterday that it was midwinter; now it was nearing midsummer and slowly but surely more dwarves trickled in from all corners of Middle-Earth. After the victory against the army of orcs and the reclamation had been deemed a success, Thorin had immediately sent word to Ered Luin; from that point on word had spread across the land like wildfire that Erebor was once more in the hands of dwarves.

Each passing day more dwarves arrived; Balin had been worried for some time now that the increase in population would greatly affect the food stores in the coming months. The adviser was not wrong, more dwarves meant more mouths to feed and they had only just begun preparing themselves for autumn and winter – the colder months were just around the corner. The tentative alliance between Erebor and the Woodland realm was steadily becoming stronger and while there was still quite a lot of arguing during talks, the dwarven kingdom could now rely on the elves to offer their support.

The first caravan from the Blue Mountains had just arrived today; the trek from the West to East was not as horrible for them as it had been for the Company during the quest – for which Bilbo was thankful. The new group of dwarves brought in exceeded the amount of the previous caravan. There were many Iron Hills dwarves who had kin arriving with the caravan; most of them either previously lived in Erebor or were close family of those who had. Glóin and Bombur were the only dwarves that Bilbo knew of in the Company with a spouse and children. Balin had told him that Thorin's sister, Dís, would likely be in the second caravan which wouldn't be arriving for another month or so; the other dwarves had traveled with what family they had left as half the Company were closely related to each other after all.

Bilbo felt lighthearted watching the excited bustle of dwarves inside the mountain. It was an amazing turnaround from what the Company had arrived to find last year. Watching Bombur and Glóin embrace their families was as painful as it was heartening. He had learned that dwarves with big families such as Bombur's were rare; childbearing was difficult and the chance of complication during birth was startlingly high. On top of it all, the male to female ratio of the dwarven population was horribly unbalanced. 

Hobbits were quite the opposite of dwarves – the large hobbit family trees could attest to that. What family Bilbo had left behind in the Shire he would never be able to embrace again. Dying made him realize how much he wished he had a family of his own, the envy leaving him hollow and irritated. But while it had taken some time, Bilbo finally counted the dwarves as his family – he remained grateful that he could at least talk to a few of them.

The entire mountain seemed to come alive, reminding Bilbo of the way Thorin had spoken about his childhood home. Much of the obstructions blocking corridors and rooms had been cleared away, though there was still more that needed to be done. But the areas that had been seen to were well lit now and ready to be lived in once again. The Erebor that Bilbo had once known was but a fleeting nightmare that he could no longer clearly recall.

Among those rooms that had been cleaned up was the main kitchen. The room was massive, almost as big as Bilbo's entire smial; the tables that split the room in half already had many platters of covered food on them. Those who had offered their cooking skills were busy whipping up a feast in celebration of the new arrivals.

Bilbo had little appreciation for the meals that were prepared during the journey; cram and what little fresh rations they had did not make a hearty meal. The weak broth alone was almost enough reason for Bilbo to have dumped the contents of his bowl back into the cooking pot. Bombur spent as much time grumbling about the lack of proper food as Bilbo had; there was never an opportunity for the dwarf to cook with fresh ingredients – even with their stops in Rivendell, Beorn's home, and Laketown. Bilbo hadn't seen Bombur this happy since Bag End, honestly. The dwarf hummed as he chopped up an assortment of vegetables, tossing them into a big cauldron of bubbling meat broth sitting over a fire-pit.

All the food that had been prepared thus far looked absolutely divine and being confined to this ghostly form was further infuriating. Hobbits valued food above all else and whatever usefulness that Bilbo found in his newly gained abilities were soundly devalued in the face of Bombur's blessed culinary abilities. Though he could not smell or taste, neither feel nor handle objects, he had an urge to cook that he could not sate. He was not the most celebrated cook in the Shire, in fact many of his dishes came out odd looking, yet the taste was nothing short of phenomenal. The Company had certainly not complained in the least during their surprise visit, which had been a nice boost to his self-confidence.

Bombur added the last of the seasonings into the cauldron, giving it a couple nice stirs with a big wooden spoon. The dwarf set to work adding some sort of ground meat to a bowl, followed closely by a small array of seasonings, one egg, milk, one finely chopped onion, and what looked to be breadcrumbs. Hobbits were not known to be picky about their food, so it had been difficult for Bilbo to understand why so many guests over the years politely declined his meatloaf – it had been his father's secret recipe after all.

“Oh goodness, what I wouldn’t do to be able to eat again!” Bilbo groaned mournfully, watching as the rotund cook placed the seasoned meat blob into a loaf pan and into an oven.

“I don't see why not, Bilbo; I'm sure no one will mind–” Bombur began jovially before abruptly falling silent and going still.

Four dwarves had somehow managed to gain the ability to see him, yet it never ceased to surprise Bilbo when it happened. The number had just become five, Bilbo supposed, as Bombur swiveled his head from side to side before turning the rest of his body around to face Bilbo. The round dwarf's eyes were nearly the size of saucers – likely to fall right out of his head were they open any wider.

“Good evening?” Bilbo grinned, lifting an arm up and wiggling his fingers as a greeting to Bombur.

Bilbo wasn't entirely sure if it was a blessing or a curse that the kitchen was empty when the large dwarf fell to the ground in a dead faint. On one hand, it was likely a good thing that there were no witnesses to see Bombur clam up spectacularly at nothing – as Bilbo could not have been seen by anyone else. On the other hand, however, Bilbo could do nothing but hope the dwarf would come back to himself soon lest that wonderful meatloaf baking in the oven turn to an inedible lump; not having the ability to become corporeal made it impossible for Bilbo to see to it himself.

Thankfully he didn't have to wait long for the unconscious dwarf to come to, but he was definitely startled when Bombur unexpectedly shot up from his prone position on the floor.

“Oh! I'm so very glad you're awake,” Bilbo yelped. Had he actually been sitting on the empty space on the table Bilbo would have most certainly fallen off – his ability to float was rather nifty. “I don't mean to add insult to injury but you may want to check on your meatloaf.”

Bombur had begun rubbing his eyes with disbelief just as Bilbo mentioned the meatloaf and he quickly got to his feet, which was a rather exciting sight watching such a large dwarf move with such swiftness; it had reminded Bilbo of the time when Bombur had out run the company as they were chased by Beorn in his bear form.

“I apologize if I gave you a fright, Master Bombur, I wasn't expecting you to hear me,” Bilbo chuckled. Ori would be ecstatic to learn of the new development.

Bombur didn't acknowledge Bilbo right away as he pulled the piping hot loaf pan from the oven. Several dwarves whom had been working in the kitchen right along with Bombur had rushed in, grabbing up much of the readied food sitting on the tables; they interrupted whatever the ginger dwarf was planning to say as he made to set the loaf pan on a table where there was now free space. It was a few more moments before they were truly alone again, the tables bisecting the room mostly bare save for the recent addition.

“I didn't think I'd ever see you again, after – you know,” Bombur began. “Didn't even think it were possible for you to die after standing up to Smaug like you did; couldn't believe my ears when Gandalf came and told us that Kíli's elf had found your b-body.”

Bombur was often a dwarf of very few words; he seemed unused to speaking so freely like this, if the awkward shuffling and wringing his hands were anything to go by, Bilbo mused.

“Yes, well.” Bilbo smiled ruefully. “I wasn't exactly expecting this either, but here I am.”

“If you don't mind me asking – h-how are you here?”

The story wasn't a long one, but he found himself struggling to retell it and ultimately ended up cutting quite a lot out. “If you want the finer details you'll have to speak to Bofur,” Bilbo found himself saying at the end of his abridged retelling. What little time was left preparing the remainder of the meal was spent conversing – mostly about food, with Bilbo sharing a few choice dessert recipes he had acquired from some rather obstinate hobbits.

“I-It’s a blessing that you’re here,” Bombur said, not quite able to meet Bilbo’s eyes. “Things haven’t been the same since… you know, but you already know what I think.”

“If I hadn’t died I’d likely be back in the Shire by now. I’m sure you lot would have been fine without me, only all of you might have been able to write me letters as opposed to only a few of you speaking with a ghost hobbit.” There was no guarantee that Bilbo would have stayed after the battle, but voicing that fact sounded worse than it had been in his head.

Bombur was silent for a moment, expression pensive as he considered Bilbo’s words. “The journey wasn’t at all what we we’re expecting but none of us – at least Bofur, Bifur and I – wouldn’t change much if we had to do it all over.”

“Well if you  _ do _ happen to do it all over again, make sure we have better rations at least,” Bilbo joked, earning a laugh from Bombur for the effort. 

The strange timer Bombur had set went off, prompting the dwarf to pull the last of the of the desserts out of the oven: three apple pies with extra cinnamon – the only way the company would eat them. The meatloaf was cruel but fresh apple pies were complete torture and Bilbo couldn’t hold back another mournful groan.

“Apologies, Bilbo; must be a terrible thing to bear, not being able to nibble,” Bombur laughed, placing the piping hot desserts one at a time on a big platter that he would be able to carry them all out at once. 

“There’s not much difference between being a ghost and having to deal with twelve voracious dwarves if we’re being honest,” Bilbo grumbled petulantly, quashing away the memory of his poor, ransacked pantry. 

“Too true, Bilbo,” Bombur shook with laughter. “I hate to cut our reunion short, but I think it’s time I took these pies out and joined the others; you know how dwarves get when we’re starving. I hope that we’ll get another chance to speak again soon.”

“We most certainly will be speaking again, but I think I shall be joining you this evening, if only to amuse myself with the poor manners you all seem to have,” Bilbo grinned.

“As you wish!” Bombur said, lifting the platter of pies from the table.

With the promise of speaking more later, Bombur and Bilbo exited the kitchen.

 

*

 

As the inhabitants of mountain feasted and celebrated, the Company and their family had been set up in a separate but spacious dining room for a more subdued, but no less exciting reunion. All the food that Bilbo had seen waiting on the tables in the kitchen was now spread out across the single large table in the new room; around the table the company sat with Thorin at the head.

Before any food could be thrown or devoured Thorin stood, pushing his chair back and raising his glass.

“My friends,” he began, eyes making a circuit around the entire table to briefly capture the gaze of each dwarf in attendance. “Today marks the first day of the true restoration of our home. The losses sustained to get us here are _ immeasurable _ , but those sacrifices were not made in vain. Today we not only celebrate a homecoming, but we also celebrate those who helped us reach this point; may they _ never _ be forgotten.”

Thorin paused, looking into the distance as his eyes misted. Bilbo felt his own urge to cry at the sight of the normally stoic King overcome with emotion. The five dwarves that could see him shot him furtive glances as the King moved to wrap up his speech.

“To Bilbo Baggins.”

The answering calls were loud and resounding, and continued to ring stubbornly in Bilbo's ears as the dwarves set to work on dismantling the bountiful feast. The mood shifted to one much lighter as the food throwing commenced; Bilbo looked back on their stop in Rivendell fondly as he watched his dwarves now. It had been scandalous, bearing witness to Bofur hopping up on the table when they had all dined with Lord Elrond their first night in the elven city. The music supplied by their hosts had been perfectly fine, very soothing after such an arduous day dealing with trolls and the subsequently orc scouting party, Bilbo thought; of course, the dwarves adamantly disagreed. Bofur's singing only encouraged the dwarves to become increasingly rowdy and boisterous, ending with a food fight. Bilbo had always wanted to meet elves and he had every intention on making a good first impression, but the Company had completely ruined _ that _ endeavor.

Bilbo wouldn't have had it any other way, looking back; his dwarves deserved happiness in any form, he could not begrudge them that after having lived such harsh lives. Bilbo was happy that _ they _ were happy – most of them had seemed happy anyway; he had even caught Thorin dancing and smiling that evening.

Bombur's seven children were absolutely adorable; they reminded him of all the little faunts that ran amok in the Shire. They chattered between themselves, sometimes yelling over each other to get their father's attention. Bombur was thoroughly distracted by his wife who leaned closer to speak quietly to her husband. Bilbo would have to make time to speak with Bombur and learn more about his family; they hadn't spent nearly enough talking during their travels and their chat in the kitchen had not been nearly long enough.

Glóin's son looked quite a bit different from the picture his father kept, but time would not be halted merely because a parent wished it. The lad wasn't too much younger than the youngest members of the Company; Gimli had only just reached his sixty-fourth year. Bilbo was certain that he had heard Fíli make a silly comment to Kíli about his brother's lack of facial hair compared to Gimli's short but thick beard. Glóin's wife was now the first female dwarf he had ever seen, also nothing like what had been captured in the picture.

The children were finally getting pulled into the overzealous celebration, and it pained Bilbo to watch perfectly good food fly across the room. It seemed he was not the only one to be perturbed by dwarven supper antics.

“Why don't you tell us about the quest,” Bombur's wife Ingvá called out authoritatively, halting the poor table shenanigans; even the major offenders managed to look sheepish under her reproachful gaze.

The noise picked up again as each dwarf attempted to start the tale, talking over each other with increasing volume, much to Bilbo's amusement. The hobbit shook his head with mild exasperation – it was no wonder how this lot couldn't get anything done when they were together. Ingvá looked no more amused than when she had first intervened and Thorin didn't look like he was planning to step in any time soon.

It was Glóin who finally had enough of the noise, bellowing loud enough to have given Thorin a run for his gold. “All right you lot, such yer traps!” and many of the dwarves began to pout.

“You already know that Thorin was lookin' for dwarves,” Glóin began, and many of the dwarves nodded an affirmation. “We’re all gathered at the meetin' spot, ready to get goin’ an’ a tall man showed up in our camp outta nowhere, right under Dwalin's nose!”

Dwalin muttered, stuffing a roll in his mouth.

“According to ‘im, our Company was numbered unlucky–”

“It  _ was _ unlucky!” Óin piped up.

“I'm tellin' the story here, now stuff a rock in it!” Glóin yelled. “Gandalf, the man called ‘imself, said he had the fourteenth member picked out for our group–”

“Forgive me but I must retire for the evening,” Thorin interrupted this time, but was met with much less irritation from Glóin. Bilbo caught the censuring look Balin shot the King, and watched as Thorin retreated from the dining room.

“If we're all done interruptin’ the story!” Glóin growled, jumping back into his tale.

Bilbo felt that he should be insulted by the way the dwarf was retelling the start of the quest, but Glóin hadn't been present when Dwalin had first pressed his way past the hobbit and into the smial. His home was nearly destroyed in the span of an entire evening because of those dwarves! Though he was quite appreciative that his unexpected company had put his home back the way it had been before the invasion.

Between the arrival at Bag End and stopping for the night in the Trollshaws Balin had excused himself quietly – Bilbo had nearly missed the departure.

“Trolls are nasty, aye, but they are no match for a dwarf such as myself!” Glóin laughed. “Were it not for me, poor Mister Baggins would’ve been pulled apart. As the rest of our party dropped their weapons I took me axe in hand and said _ 'that's our hobbit and you won't be hurtin' a hair on his furry feet!' _ But trolls are halfwits, you see, and decided to test my word.”

“What happened then, Da?” Gimli asked, clearly sucked into his father's horribly embellished story.

“The buggers started pulling at Mister Baggin's arms and legs and by Mahal I wasn't havin' any of that! I walked right up to one of those bastards and brought my axe right down on his foot! Started dancin' around like a drunkard at a festival he did.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes; clearly dwarves could not be trusted to tell a story. It made him reconsider the authenticity of dwarven history.

“You cut a boulder in half?” Gimli asked, completely in awe of his father's supposed greatness.

“Damn right I did, right down the middle and turned the trolls to stone with the light of day!”

Each step of the quest was horribly skewed from what actually happened and Bilbo found himself feeling _ incredibly _ offended for the way Glóin had described Rivendell and especially the part where _ Glóin _ had apparently saved Thorin from Azog. In truth, he had been hanging from a tree that was uprooted from the weight it had to bear.

“No. This is absolutely ridiculous! You did not _ wrangle _ an eagle,” Bilbo yelled, throwing his hands up in the air, completely vexed by the idea that the dwarf had lassoed an eagle and convinced it to carry them all to safety. Ori tried his best to contain a snicker, but Glóin had heard him anyway and shot the scribe a dirty look.

As Glóin continued his story Bilbo found himself correcting each point in their journey from then on, much to the amusement of the dwarves that  _ could _ see him.

_ 'You could not have wrestled Beorn into submission! His bear form is five times bigger than yourself!' _

_ 'How could you have escaped the spiders when you and the rest were all under the spell of the forest and covered in webbing?' _

_ ‘The locks on the cells in Thranduil’s dungeon could not simply be picked! You even emptied your stomach at the edge of the river once you tumbled out of your barrel –  _ **_after_ ** _ I got you ungrateful sods out I might add.’ _

_ ‘You forgot the bit where you crawled up out of someone’s toilet; I’m sure  _ **_that_ ** _ would go over swimmingly in one of those ridiculous ballads your kind are so famous for.’ _

_ ‘You were nowhere near Laketown when Smaug set his fire to it; let’s also mention that trying to hit him with your axe would be closer to threading a sewing needle.’ _

_ ‘ _ **_Everyone_ ** _ saw that bell crash through the wall, and we all did our part fighting Azog’s army.’ _

“Yavanna's breath! I've heard men weave better stories, and their blood had been replaced with ale when they told them!” Bilbo growled when the tale finally came to its end, crossing his arms over his chest – thankful at least that he could not get headaches anymore.

“Mahal, I think I've had too much to drink.” Glóin muttered, rubbing at his eyes for a moment then blinking a couple times before his eyes focused. For the first time since they had last spoken months ago, Glóin locked eyes with Bilbo.

It had taken a moment for him to realize what was happening; Bilbo quickly looked around him, even taking a step backward to make sure someone hadn't been standing inside of him – _ that _ had been a weird experience – but there was no one.

The feast had long since been consumed, and everyone who still sat around the table were in varying states of food coma; even young Gimli looked like he was ready to fall face first onto the table. It took little coaxing from Glóin’s wife, Brynja, to get her confused husband and tuckered out son up and out the door. Bilbo would have to see about speaking to Glóin later, along with Ori – because he was indeed sick of explaining everything.

Their exit had reminded Bilbo of Thorin's earlier escape, shortly followed by Balin's whose irritated yet concerned stare was enough to spur a hobbit's curiosity.

 

*

 

“You can not keep running, Your Highness,” Balin said in his stern advisory tone as he stood behind and to the side of the armchair on which the King sat.

Thorin ignored him, opting instead to stare at the hearth he had just brought back to life upon entering his sitting room; his eyes were unfocused, distant, as though he were hiding in the deep recesses of his mind.

“Thorin,” Balin pleaded softly this time as he took a couple more steps so that he could comfortably rest a hand on the dwarf King's shoulder. “You can't keep turning this in on yourself, lad – we're all worried about you. You haven't been taking care of yourself, and Óin has been pulling his beard out one whisker at a time watching you hurt.”

Bilbo liked to think that his parents did well in raising him; his father would definitely be rolling in his grave now as Bilbo walked in a conversation that was clearly not meant to be heard by others. But this explained why Balin was muttering so much about a dwarf more thickheaded than Dáin's boars lately.

Against his better judgment, Bilbo continued to listen.

“Since the funeral you haven't once gone to visit Bilbo's gravestone,” Balin went on to say. “The monument you had commissioned was moved into Bifur's garden days ago – the very same one you vowed to have made to honor Bilbo's memory.”

Thorin sat like he were a statue, and Bilbo wondered if the King was even breathing at this point; truthfully, there had been only one other time when Bilbo saw Thorin this low. Bilbo grimaced as though he could taste the sickly sourness of nausea in his mouth that the memory brought with it.

“You sleep very little, eat even less; your moods are volatile and it's a damn good thing we have someone handling the delegating or we'd have a diplomatic disaster on our hands!”

“I am a King–” Thorin began to say in a monotone voice.

“Penning your signature does not equate to working, Thorin!” Balin suddenly interrupted. “You anger at the drop of a hat, you're not in your head during meetings–”

“I am not a dwarfling that needs to be disciplined!” Thorin roared as he sprung out of his chair, pivoting around to face his adviser.

Balin paled considerably, taking a couple steps back from where Thorin now stood, shocked into silence from such a violent outburst. Bilbo wasn't as affected by Thorin's unexpected explosion, but the shudder was involuntary. Perhaps it had been his mind seeing what he wanted to see this entire time, the view Bilbo had of the King now was nothing like what he had seen over the past several months. He had pointedly avoided looking at Thorin during the feast and thus was now as shocked as Balin, but for another reason entirely.

Thorin's face was eerily gaunt, more so than it had been during the Company's stint in Mirkwood and subsequently in the elven king's dungeon; the dark bags under his eyes were darker now than they had been when the King had first fallen to the sensuous callings of Smaug's cursed gold hoard; the way Thorin bared his teeth at Balin and the wild look in his glacial eyes reminded Bilbo of the wolves that once invaded the Shire during the Long Winter. The strong and proud dwarf the hobbit had considered a friend was now more akin to a feral beast.

Thorin's anger abandoned him as quickly as it came and in his shame he fled the room.

Bilbo didn't stick around to comfort Balin, instead he quickly passed through the walls to follow after Thorin. He wasn't entirely certain as to why he was following the King, but he did it anyway; on some level it felt _ right. _ Thorin set a brisk pace, which might have been a problem if Bilbo were still in his body. Along with Balin's aforementioned complaints of hardheaded dwarves, Bilbo also recalled a few instances when the old adviser muttered about disappearing Kings. The hobbit was not left to his imagination where the King’s hiding place might be as he trailed Thorin right out into the battlements.

The sun had long since sunk into the horizon and the stars now twinkled up in the clear night sky. Off in the distance Bilbo could see the dim glow of campfires radiating from Dale. He could tell there was a breeze, though only because it gently carded through Thorin's thick mane.

The silence was almost jarring for Bilbo, and he shuffled awkwardly in an attempt to fill the overwhelming nothingness, only to realize that he could not make noise unless he actually broke it with speech. It seemed like an odd notion, speaking to someone who couldn't hear him. Being alone here with the King brought up all the things Bilbo had been trying to keep buried for months and it bothered him; he still felt justified in continuing to bear anger towards Thorin.

“I'm sorry.”

So distracted by the nothingness Bilbo's head shot up at the apology, expecting Thorin to be staring at him in wonderment much like five other dwarves had thus far.

“For everything that is,” Thorin said as he stared up into the starry sky. “You do not deserve such blatant disrespect from a dwarf who owes you everything. It seems I unintentionally continue to besmirch your memory, if Balin's words are to be believed.”

Much to Bilbo's apparent disappointment, Thorin only seemed to be speaking to himself. The bits of himself that he had been trying to repress for the longest time yearned for Thorin's attention. 

“Sometimes I wonder if you dwarves even know what respect is,” Bilbo found himself huffing in amusement.

“It should have been me; I would have our roles reversed given the chance,” Thorin said bitterly, digging his fingers into the stone slabs before him.

After saving Thorin's life by risking his own, Bilbo had ended up befriending the dwarf who had been far too intent on not taking responsibility for a hobbit's well-being. Bilbo had come to terms with Thorin not liking him; he didn't need their leader to like to him to complete the job he had signed up to do, but it still hurt him. Thorin's attitude was the reason it took so long for the other dwarves of the Company to warm up to him and while he did not need the King's approval to fulfill his duty, the vitriol often left Bilbo doubting himself and his supposed abilities. _ I would have doubted me too. _

“I would not; Erebor was – _ is _ your purpose and I would not take that from you, even if it meant that I might have gone home in the end.” And it was the truth. Thorin had given him plenty of reasons not to like him, but Bilbo still held respect for the challenge the dwarf had set before himself.

“I would have named you dwarf-friend before the entire kingdom and offered you a place within Erebor's halls – you would have wanted for nothing. I might have also had the chance to take back my foul words and actions wrought in my madness.”

The pain Bilbo felt was unmitigated by his ghostly form, and it wracked his entire being – horribly cracking the shell of anger that encased him.

“It's all my fault,” Thorin whispered, his shoulders sagging as he leaned forward to press his head onto the stone between his hands.

Bilbo raised a hand to comfort Thorin in his anguish, but as his fingers went to connect with the dwarf's broad shoulder they had passed right through him.


End file.
